


LoveShack

by Red_and_R3d



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Daddy Kink, Damara Megido| the Handmaid, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, M/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sburb, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Sex, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, Xeno, holy shit so many tags, possible brief moments of angst, so much sex, theres gonna be sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:06:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1062724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_and_R3d/pseuds/Red_and_R3d
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sburb has ended with victory assured. A new Earth was created, having trolls and humans reside together since the planet’s existence came to be. There is no more discrimination from the hemospectrum, no more horror terrors, and no more terror from villains past. However, the new Earth has taken on a new hierarchy; wealth. Those who have it revel in it, and those who don’t are desperate to attain. Corruption seethes through every corner of the new world, and sin is all around. With everyone starting new, and no memories of what was or each other, everyone is striving to survive in this wretched new world. Yet in order to survive, you have to pay a price, selling something in return; and some are forced to pay more than they desire to give. Though, after all, it’s just like the old saying goes…</p><p>"Sex Sells"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to post this at the beginning of Black Friday. Just thought I'd share that...
> 
>  
> 
> PS: I recommend listening to this song while you read it, if you are looking for music; [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Rnv-Dpq4XnI)

 

 

  The sun fades slowly behind the horizon, its’ shining warmth, replaced by the solemn assortment of the neon lights of bright reds, purples, pinks, and greens.  Their vivid contortions draw attention to the scattered casinos, strip joints, and lounges that plague the crowded streets, tracing the edges of the city. However, the vibrancy of the neon is diluted by the soft yellow light of paper lanterns seeping out from the wide-gated entrance of one of the many bordellos that stake claim on this land. The light shines softly, almost delicately, as the open red gates make the building greet those who enter with an open arm embrace. It is a grand looking place, reflecting the historic finesse of a time long ago, nestled in the cultures of the Far East. Multiple black pagoda roofs layered on three stories of strong white walls make it stand powerful like an old fortress; while a tall stone fence hides its sides and back courtyard from the rest of the world. Yet the warm light of the entrance still beckons.

Walk through the red gate, the ground that was once the sidewalk alongside the road turns into a trail of gravel, beckoning you farther as bonsai and lotuses line its sides, surrounding large red columns that line the way to the light of the entrance. These grand red columns graced sparing with a few smaller red horizontal bars display the valued goods behind them. These are the prized gems of the keeper, the master, the lord of this house. They are his most treasured processions. Two on each side kept safe, separated from the world behind the red bars, yet exposed enough for all to revel in their temptation as they pass by.

There are four total, each pair surrounded graciously by numerous pillows and blankets made of the finest and luxurious materials. They rest on exquisite hand-crafted rugs shipped from the Fertile Crescent, and tatami mats where silver platters lay—providing the most exuberant and delicious delicacies from around the globe—while paper lanterns swing softly above them. They are dressed in theme with their surroundings. Their desired flesh is clothed in intricately embroidered silk kimonos and sashes, and draped in accessories of pure gold.  They lounge silently amongst their caged surroundings.

On the right sits a young man with bright blonde hair, shining like the gold he wears beneath the hue of the lanterns. His skin is blessed with soft kisses from the sun; though once tanned lightly by its embrace, now likened to porcelain from the elongated time spent behind the red bars. He is adorned in passionate and bright red robes, matching the blindfold shielding his eyes from the world. He sits against the bars listlessly amongst the abundance of pillows and cloth. His right hand combs softly through the wild mane of the troll he shares his lap with, leaving his left arm to rest, perched on his bent knee.

He is a somewhat tall troll, but his youth is evident on his unmasked face. Despite the length of his long, curving horns, he refuses to move his head from the red silken lap and the palm caressing his locks. He instead moves his arm slowly, repeatedly stretching toward the silver platter before them, capturing a few green grapes in his clawed fingers, then shifting his arm to feed some to the blindfolded young man, and lastly pulling his arm back down to eat the last few. His deep purple kimono slips down along with his gold bracelets, exposing his soft yet toned grey shoulder and arm with each flowing motion.

On the left sits a young man; his features resembling those of the young man adorned in red on the right. However, unlike the mop-top hairstyle of the red, his bright blonde hair is spiked, jagged and edged like unmined crystals. His sharp pointed eyewear further his serrated appearance, keeping his eyes hidden like dark onyx. He is graced in fiery orange robes with a gold collar around his neck, decorated lovingly with topaz, trailing to a small gold loop at the center. He sits unmoving, meditating, his posture almost perfect; yet leaning ever so slightly from the foot pushing gently against his exposed and muscled back as a clawed toe softly traces a variety of incomprehensible patterns. The foot jingles with gold ankle bracelets as it shifts, motioning to the body it’s connected to. The last gem lies languidly on his stomach. His saffron kimono has slipped all the way down—revealing the curve of his lush grey spine—as he props his head upward on his left elbow, his clawed hand carefully caressing his soft grey cheek as the other flips casually through the pages of a magazine. 

He is a troll, like the one donned in purple; however he bears little, if no, resemblance to the dark amethyst clothed troll. His hair is much shorter, stylishly spiked upward on the edges of the back and sides. He is smaller than the other troll, at least by a head, even if accounting for their horns. He has two horns near each temple and curved ever so slightly. His front pair looks to be the size of a hand from wrist to tip, while the back pair is overshadowed by them, gracing his head at a bit more than half that size. His hand rises from the magazine occasionally, gold clinging on his wrist as he brushes his bangs out of his face, revealing his very unique eyes. One shines ruby, the other like sapphire. He is also adorned with a collar, however somewhat different from the one bestowed on the young man in orange. His collar is made gold metal, lined with a cloth or leather of some sort. It appears to have some sort of thin electronic device attached to it, yet its purpose is unknown.

The sound of a pleased hum travels from the entrance, returning all attention back to it, once again beckoning. Beneath the soft lights a man sits, his palms clasped on a luxurious counter, hiding a growing smirk. His eyes are narrowed slightly, yet that does not halt the fierce green that illuminates them, diluted only slightly by rectangular framed glasses. He straightens himself, hands opening as to reflect the embrace of the building as he looks down the entrance.  He tilts his head, dark brown hair shifts with the movement as his smirk becomes a grin. His voice falls heavily from his mouth, words enveloped in untrusted camaraderie as he greets,

 

 

 

“Welcome to the LoveShack ol chap….”


	2. 3 Days, 20 Hours, 4 Minutes, and 41, 42, 43…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It should be about 11:45 pm Texas Time...
> 
> Happy Birthday Dave
> 
> PS: Here's some music to enjoy while you read: [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTTHMHq3JMU)

Three Days, 20 Hours, four Minutes, and 41, 42, 43…

 

 

 

Your mind wanders, subconsciously counting away at the passing seconds while you weave your fingers through the strands, combing gently at Gamzee’s lush mane. Your hand is slothful, moving in tempo with the ever-slowing time, like a pendulum swinging listlessly from an old antique clock. It has been three days, 20 hours, and almost five minutes since the lens popped out of your only and favorite pair of aviators and broke. It has been two days, 20 hours, and almost 5 minutes since you had your ruined shades shipped out to the eyeglass shop for repairs. Yet, it will probably be another three days, three hours, and 55 minutes until they are returned to you safe and sound. In the meantime however, you are forced to conceal your eyes behind a red satin blindfold, leaving your mind to entertain itself by counting the fleeting seconds of the fading day.

You would laugh at the irony of the situation, if it were not so damn depressing. You sit here blinded. Just as you were to the corruption you were seeping into. Just as you were to the severity of the crimes you committed. Just as you were to the actual purpose you were hired for, believing your employer would never throw you and your brother under the bus; and just as you were to the deeper meaning behind Jake’s “generous” offer when your lives were just about to reach a literal dead end.

However, instead of a blindfold, ignorance and naivety clouded your view. Even though your brother was the one who accepted and made all the final decisions, while you just followed along, you do not blame him. You really could not blame him even if you wanted to. He may be your older brother, but the fact that you two are so close in age, you really have no excuses for being so blind. Besides, you know he was just looking out for you, doing the best he could to keep you both from ending up dead on the streets; which—after mom’s death and being kicked out of foster care—is a miracle that it did not happen in the first place. Thankfully, you were both able to survive by working for some street gangs, taking the dirty jobs that would be too risky for them, being already  caught with blood on their hands a few times too many. You were callous though. A job was a job, and if it meant taking out one guy just so you and your brother could have a good meal and a place to sleep, then you could care less about how many times you had to do it.

 

That is until the gang could not bribe the cops anymore after the massacre, leaving you and your brother to be caught frozen at the scene like deer in the headlights as the cops raided the place in the midst of the slaughter. The boss paid big money for shifty lawyers to protect their skins and even bigger money to make sure the judge would give you two the harshest sentence he could think of, making sure we would never get a chance to pay them back. However, Jake had connections. The connections we needed.  You never really knew much about Jake, but your brother did. He knew Jake on some sort of level, but what it was you are not really sure.  All you know is your brother went to Jake and he gave you guys a way out. He even got the judge to flip the script. Though your old boss had a heart attack and passed before any final sentence was given.  

To your misfortune however, gifts like that are not given freely. Before you knew it, Jake had both of you wrapped around his fingers, nooses around your necks and chained to a big debt for all the “court costs”. You tried to get out of it. Neither one of you had the money to pay him.  Yet, when you’re dealing with someone who has more power over the courts than a crime boss, your chances of winning any battles like that are next to nothing. Since the autopsy results for  your old boss came back, you both were put at risk again for getting locked up for good. Maybe even worse. The only thing keeping that from happening was Jake and his hush money, keeping the case from being reopened and leaving you two no choice but to work off the debt, on his terms.

So here you are, working for the keeper of your debt, as Gamzee occasionally plops a grape into your mouth while you wait for your next client. You’ve given up hope on ever paying it back. You have a knack for keeping track of time, your subconscious counting it continuously in the back of your head, day and night, never being wrong once. It is an old habit that is hard to break. However, your mind has trouble accounting for how long you have actually been behind these red bars. Days have blurred into months. Months have blurred into years; and with each passing night of various clients to please, time starts to blur too. So you sit here, blinded, combing through Gamzee’s hair calmly, and counting the seconds as they slowly rot away.

A bell chimes, and a muffled greeting is heard. You can feel someone staring coldly at you. You feel it, eyeing you down like prey, sending  a small shiver down your spine. You can only bet it is his cursed green eyes.  You hear footsteps and the jingling of keys.  A door creaks open to the right wall of red bars, near the counter that you’ve become so accustomed to seeing every night. You can feel Gamzee’s head rise up drearly from your lap, horns knocking slightly on your elbow. You tilt your head in the direction of a voice, as you attempt to recall your surroundings from memory. A familiar tone calls to you.

 

“Well Dave, looks like you have another one tonight.”

 

Gamzee feeds you one last grape as you start to make your way over to the cage opening. He makes a clicking noise as you comb his mane one last time in return.

 

“What room?” you ask as you slide out the cage entrance, feeling something latch onto your wrist with a click.  


 

“Room 34, a high pillow lady, asked for the bronze package. Give it to her good ol’ chap. Tally ho!” He says brashly, as he gives you a light pat on the back while one of the servants escorts you obligingly by your latched wrist to the awaiting client.

 

 


	3. "Sollux"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tonight I willl feast and celebrate Shab-e Yalda.
> 
> Tomorrow I will wonder why a day of hope coincides with a day of doom.
> 
> music; [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iUjrpeBv6zM)

“Sollux”

 

“Yeth?”

 

“Stop”

 

“No”

 

“I’m serious”

 

“I know”

 

“Then stop”

 

“Hmm…no”

     

 You continue to press your foot against his back; clawed toes stretching as if trying to message the tension in the muscles of his neck and shoulders. He has been sitting like this for at least half of the duration you have been in the cage, perfectly still, unmoving. Though you give him credit for that kind of mental strength, you are pretty sure he is also scaring off potential clients and it is starting to piss you off. You have a quota to fill this week and will be damned if you let Dirk get in the way of Jake buying you that new laptop with the newest Solid State Drive you keep reading about in your magazine.

 

“Sollux.”

 

“Yeth?”

 

“You know you’re going to regret this.”

 

“Don’t give a fuck.”

 

“No you give a lot of fucks.”

 

“Oh wow, you really detherve a Pulitzer Prize for that one. Great comeback fuckathth.”

 

“Yes, I am fucking your ass, along with everyone else in this city, if not the region.”

 

You try to kick him a little with your heel, however he tilts himself forward a bit, causing your foot to miss. You know he is doing all he can to keep from smirking as he speaks;

 

“I’m pretty sure if you didn’t spend so much time staring at a computer screen or flashing your man cooch to everyone that walks by in the hopes of getting your daily ass pounding, you could’ve mastered your mega mood swings by now.”

 

As much as it pisses you off, you know he is right. You have a pretty good grasp on your mood disorder now, but you know it could be better. Yet even though you still spend a lot of your free time isolated with as many electronic devices as possible, your behavior could also be much worse. Ever since Dirk and Dave came along your moods have improved rapidly, and for the better. You have grown close to them over the years and in a way they have given you the emotional support you have been severely lacking for most of your life. However it still does not give Dirk the leverage to call you out on it. You attempt to flick him with your psionics with a flick of the wrist, only to recall that you sacrificed your freedom to use it long ago.  You move your hand up to your neck, tracing the edge of your collar softly. Your eyes narrow as nostalgia reminisces through the dark times of your past.

 

 

You were doomed to die. You always believed you had no fate and death would be your only salvation. Being a troll means nothing, but being a psionic does. Those burdened with such powers are despised by many. Though most are able to hide their abilities and lead peaceful lives with their secrets unnoticed by society, your telekinetic like psionics and bipolarity made that option impossible. You are nothing but scum of this world, impulsively taking a chance to escape when it came. You fled your own country in the face of persecution and death, demanded by the voices of your fellow countrymen, and winding up in a country you knew nothing about. However Jake gave you a chance. He gave you a sliver of hope that maybe; just maybe, your life was not destined to end before it even began.

You had a psionic outburst in the alleyways near the Loveshack when you got jumped one night. The cops in the area saw the flares you produced and caught you at the scene. When they discovered you had no formal immigration papers, ID or citizenship, you knew this was not going to end well. Fellow officers began to call in on their radios, waiting for a report. They informed their correspondents that the muggers were the victims instead, stating you were responsible for various damages that were too far outside the range of your blast to be caused by it. They continued to radio in ridiculous allegations of vandalisms and crimes, using you and your psionics as a scapegoat for an easy night on the job. However, just because they were cops does not mean you were going to go down without a fight. Just before you could blast them away though, they caught on to your attempt. One of the officers swiftly shot a few rounds out of a strange radar-based looking firearm. With each shot it immediately emitted frequencies that counteracted your psionics and granted you with a piercing headache, eventually causing you to black out.

 

When you finally awoke you were surprised to find yourself not on a metal cot with a wall of steel bars, nor on the floor of some vessel shipping back to your impending demise in your forsaken homeland. Instead, you awoke to find yourself on a luxuriously soft couch in a very expensive looking room. Beautifully crafted furniture and artifacts from around the globe displayed artfully and prestigiously around you. Exotic carpets lined the room when you glanced down with hazy eyes, tracing their path towards the couch you rested on and finding the edges of the silk sheet you were wrapped in brushing gently across the floor. You look around with eyes half lidded and dazed as you continued to rest your head on the couch. You would have believed death had finally taken you if it was not for the evening light shining softly through the gaps in the drapes, reviving you from your slumber.  As your mind regained its clarity, you began to notice the sharp trimmings on glass tables as they stood before a very angular shaped fireplace, shining like black marble and  framed by antique dark-wood walls with built-in bookshelves. Modern looking tables stood firm alongside beautiful vintage sofas, contrasting their elegance while extravagant embellishments of antiques and gold artifacts were placed precariously in what space is left available for them to reside. You shifted your head and saw velvet drapes resting over two arched windows on the wall to the right, with a vintage looking globe presented like a trophy in between. Beautiful paintings hung in elegant frames while expensive souvenirs were arranged on the various shelves and tables with pride.  You recall slowly arising from the couch when the scent of exotic teas and honey filled your senses, reminding you of the home you left so long ago, and what little food you have been able to find since you left.

You pushed one hand slowly against the seat of the sofa to better your balance while the other hand palmed your still dizzy head. You became startled and immediately shifted your attention over the head of the sofa to find the source of the calm words being spoke;

 

“Ah so you’re finally up.”

 

You remember him sitting by a small round dark-wood table, drinking tea as he relaxed in an antique sage chair. He peered sharply over the cup he sipped from; green eyes pierced your being and made your heart skip a beat. He then placed his tea on the table and continued speaking. He spoke of how he saw everything, how the muggers tried to attack you, how you were only defending yourself, how the cops unjustifiably sedated you. He saw every motion, heard every word. He would tell you that he bailed you out, forging visa papers and claiming you worked for him. He then told you how he brought you to his home, and laid your body to rest in the plush foyer you awoke in.

You were speechless. For anyone to help someone like you—a psionic, a lowlife whose powers make him the dirt of society—was an experience you never thought would ever happen to you, much less thought about in general. You tried to thank him, stuttering with your lisp, stunned by his grand and kind gesture. You told him you would find a way to repay him, even though you had no money, while he laughed off your fluster. He told you no such payment was needed and to think of it as a gift. You remember him pausing for a moment to sip his tea again, letting his green irises peer up and down you analytically, as if slowly soaking every detail about you. Once he set his tea back down, he then furthered his gift by offering you an opportunity, a chance to work for him. A job that would give you room and board and protection so you would never have to worry about persecution or deportation again.

You accepted without a seconds thought, unaware of the finer details of the gift you just accepted. Little did you know then that you would be selling your body to strangers practically every night and be forced to wear a collar that you would permanently remain on your neck to nullify your psionic powers. With no means of visa and documentation, or being disabled from using your psionics, you are left powerless to the outside world, and trapped to his will forever. However, even if you had known what the job truly entailed before the deal was made you still would have accepted his gift.

Regardless of how much he keeps you locked up in the Loveshack, what he gives in return is truly invaluable. He kept true to his word in the promise that you would no longer be plagued with the fears of a fugitive. His favor even goes beyond that. Every want and desire of yours is met with little or no questioning. He provides you with rich foods and shelter of a luxurious quality, along with anything else your heart desires. You have progressed from using a stolen broken-down laptop to having an electronic collection in your quarters worthy of the rich and famous, and from eating old sandwiches in the trash to dining on delicious high quality meals prepared for you. As for the collar on your neck, you barely notice it, only recalling its presence when your fingers glide passed your neck or when you unintentionally attempt to use your powers. Personally, you actually like the collar. With it keeping your psionics subdued, you have zero chance of destroying anything when you get too wired, leaving you the freedom to cope and better handle your bipolarity. Also you feel a lot calmer with it on. In a way, it makes you feel normal. Sure your strange eyes allude to your true nature as a psionic, however because you cannot use them, you feel as though you can finally be a part of the society you were once shunned by. So in regards to the overall outlook on your “job”, you can definitely say the pros outweigh the cons.

 

Besides, you love the sex. Of course you would never admit to it, but you definitely enjoy it. The moaning, the panting, the heat, the heart racing, reaching that ecstasy as you are being filled to the brim, you love it. You revel in it. It gives you the best feeling each time and it never gets old. It always feels good. You never have to think when you have sex, letting your body relax as it reacts on its own in the most pleasurable ways possible. You would say you could do this all day, when in fact you pretty much do. Endless nights of kisses and touches, bite marks and moans, and to wake up and do it all over again; compared to what you had going for you a few years back, this is the life.

 

Your mind is distracted from its thoughts when you notice Dirk shift, just the slightest bit, almost unnoticeable. Most people would not think anything of it. However, you have known dirk long enough to be able to have some read on him through his typical stoic façade. He tilts his neck ever so slightly, just enough to side-eye the other cage, moving your attention along with it. You see Dave return from the suites and being guided back towards the entrance of the cage. You can almost feel the breath that Dirk is holding as Dave enters, trying to maintain as much dignity and balance as possible. It is only until Gamzee reaches out to him and helps him back—situating Dave comfortably in his former spot and returning his head onto Dave’s lap—does Dirk finally breathe. You can tell Dave is drained. Out of the four of you, he has gotten a vast majority of the clients this week and you can tell it is taking its toll. However, it is not so much Dave that worries you, but rather Dirk. You know how he feels about the whole situation, and how much pain it puts on him when he sees his brother like this. He will never express it, much less admit it. Yet you can tell how much he cares for him. You attempt to return to your magazine when a familiar voice and the sound of jiggling keys once again grabs your attention;

 

“Sollux listen to Dirk and quit flashing those gams of yours, you got a new client.”

 

 _"Finally!"_ is all you can think of as you make your way a bit too eagerly to the cage opening.

 

“Pleathe tell me they athked at leatht for the gold package,” you lisp exasperatedly as you hold out your wrist and await the sound of the click.

 

“Sorry ol’ chap, hate to make you grummy but it’s just the old time show for this one. He looks pretty keen though, quite a sheik looking fella so I’m sure you’re bound to get a wiggle on this one.”

 

He glances at you with those sharp green eyes, still making your heart stop and run chills down your spine.

 

“Well now, off you go.”

 

He signs off in a professional tone, giving you a small pat on the back, and returns to writing on his clipboard while one of the servants guides you to your awaiting client.

 

 


	4. So What Do You Want?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Quadrantid meteor shower should be commencing around now. It should radiate from the Bootes constellation...  
> Apparently also known as "the Herdsman".
> 
>  
> 
> music; [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPTg_H_rP5E)

“So what do you want?”

“Uh…”

 

Your attention is directed upwards, tilting your head towards the blinded face speaking above you. He lets out a small chuckle at your lapse of focus, pulling his hand back a bit from where he was massaging your scalp. 

 

 

 “Come on man,” he speaks calmly as a small smirk appears on his face, “I’m asking what you would rather have, you know, for your birthday?”

 

“Oh…” you trail the word as you think to yourself, returning your head to its former resting position. Suddenly inspiration sparks you and you snap your fingers in response to your thought.

 

“How about you get me some motherfu-“

 

“And no weird clown shit.”

 

“Aw man…” 

 

“You want that kind of stuff, ask Dirk. Let him buy that shit while he goes on one of his puppet fetish online shopping sprees.”

 

“Well now I’ve got to motherfucking think this shit out all over again.”  


 

He lets out a small snicker as he returns his hand to your head, fingers threading through the strands while they rub circles into your scalp. You purr subconsciously in response to the relaxing sensation. You always feel at ease when he does this, comforting your tense nerves as you still adjust to being behind the red bars. Though you have lived at the Loveshack the longest, you only began not long ago displaying yourself behind these red bars, attracting those who seek lust in the night. However, in relation to this Jake has been kind to you—only having you perform certain “acts” instead of selling out your whole being—due to your youth and inexperience. Then again, Jake has always been good to you. He has saved you from the rage of the world. When your world seemed lost, having no one there, he was. You were homeless when he found you. Yet instead of turning the other cheek like so many others, he embraced you, gifting you with a compassion you had never experienced before. He blessed you with food and a roof over your head, a place to call home from the filthy streets you used to survive on. He even goes beyond that, letting you buy frivolous items and pursue hobbies, enabling you to live a life that you can enjoy. He has given you so much and you only wish to repay him in whatever way you can.  You would do anything for him.  You could give him your life and still you would feel it is not enough to express the gratitude you have towards him.  Suddenly, you hear a door shut and footsteps in time with the jingling of a wrist chain. 

 

 

“Hey Gamz,” Dave mutters, suppressing laughter beneath his collected words.

 

 “What up?”

 

“Did Sollux just finish with that one customer again tonight?”

 

“You mean the one that always tries to motherfucking hit on everyone with those lame motherfucking pick-up lines?”

 

“Ya that one.”

 

“Hehe yeah.”

 

Once the chain jingling becomes louder, you turn and see Sollux being guided by one of the servants around the corner.

 

“Yo Sollux!” Dave calls out, just loud enough to get his attention, “How’s your boyfriend tonight? Get to enjoy the ‘party in his pants’, or did he just call you a hurricane cause you were ‘blowing him away’?”  


 

 

You find it impossible to keep yourself from snickering, letting out a snort when you try to cover your mouth with your hand. Meanwhile when you look up, Sollux is flipping Dave the bird, and you are pretty sure you saw Dirk’s straight-lined mouth falter at the corner just ever so slightly. 

 

 

“I bet you’re flipping me off right now aren’t you.”  

 

“Eat dick Dave,” Sollux snarks back before entering the red cage on the other side. 

 

“How can I when you've been swallowing them down all night?"

 

If you were not sure Dirk was smiling before, you can sure tell he is now. You give Dave a fist bump against his free hand while Sollux shakes his head in annoyance before resituating himself with his magazine. It takes a few moments for you and Dave to completely suppress your chronic urges to laugh. Once you do though, you both return to relaxing in the growing quiet of the night. He continues to comb through your hair just as he routinely does, while you smile to yourself, closing your eyes while resting in his lap. 

You have had very few problems living at the Loveshack. However, having Sollux, Dirk, and especially Dave with you has helped you adjust greatly. They understand how it feels to be in this position, still getting used to life behind these red bars. Sure you may raze each other, dishing out a few good burns now and then, but deep down you know that everyone has each other’s back. You have grown close over the years, and some days, you are not sure how you would be able to cope with your emotions and situation without their support. You open your eyes and take a moment to remember where you are, while you eye down the platter of delicacies.

Just as a desire for sugar strikes, making you to reach out your arm and snag a few Turkish delights from the platter for you and Dave, you are distracted by the familiar sound of a drawer closing and a key turning to activate the lock. A familiar voice catches in your head, diverting your attention completely on it.

 

“Well tonight has been a bit of a flat tire. Seems like a swell time to close up shop though. Come on ol’ chaps, time to hit the hay; but first things first…”

 

He walks out from around the counter, keys jingling with each slow step he takes. Suddenly, everything just feels too quiet. His words are echoing in your head, “first things first”, and you know where that leads. However, you do not feel concerned by it. You know he is probably going to go over to Sollux and Dirk’s cage like he usually does. It only when he stops in the center and starts walking towards your cage do you being to realize that tonight is not going to be like most nights. As he gets closer, Dave’s hand goes stiff, more focus on hearing the approaching steps. You see Dirk and Sollux staring from the other cage. Sollux has his eyebrow raised and an expression that is giving you a very unsettling feeling. Meanwhile, even Dirk’s stone face has faltered, his lips slightly pursed, showing that he is just as stunned as Sollux is. His footsteps cease, yet the jingling continue as he unlocks the opening to your cage.  Sharp green eyes shift from Dave to you, smiling while he speaks.

 

“Alright Gam-Gam, let’s get a move on.”

 

 

He waves you over. You are not really sure what he wants or why, but you would never question him so you start to sit up. You can tell Dave is still tense, very tense. You are not sure as to the reason causing it, however you pet the side of his face before making your way towards the entrance in the hopes of calming him down. As you crouch under the opening to make way for your horns, you hold your wrist out and let Jake fascine the cuff and guide you himself in the direction of the west wing, while the rest are beginning to be taken by the servants to the east. 

 

 


	5. Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Isn't it ironic that the day we are closest to the sun,  
> only makes the world feel colder?
> 
> music; [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r9No8kVSXqQ)

 

Regret…

 

It is something that fills your heart and never leaves. It is the tightness that you feel in your chest when you are alone and your mind has nothing better to do than hash out the promises of the past that life has broken for you one by one.

You press your palm to the shower wall as the hot water beats down on your back. You close your eyes as you let it run all over you, flowing into your hair and drizzling down to your shoulders. You feel the droplets trickle down your chest and arms, while you take a deep breath, inhaling the steam as your mind routinely retraces your regrets.  If you could just go back—back to the days before you became prisoner of the LoveShack, before you worked for the gangs, before you got kicked out on the streets like worthless trash, before you met Jake—you would do so in a heartbeat. Yet life does not work like that. This world does not give out redoes. There is no “erase button” here. Whatever mistakes you make in this world, you will have to live with for the rest of your life, and let regret fill your soul for the rest of your days.

 

You remember how mom used to tell you how strong you were. A fighter that could fight his way through anything, resilient and strong; even during her last days she would still tell you that. You remember her laying there, clasping your warm hand with her cold ones as tears streamed down her face, yet still smiling. She begged you to watch over your brother, that she was so sorry. She regretted not being able to give you boys a better life; sorry that there was never enough food on the table or clean clothes to wear. She would apologize over and over, telling you how you boys deserved so much more, while all you could do was hold her hands in yours and stroke her hair, telling her it was alright. You would tell her how much you loved her, how those things did not matter, how she was a great mom no matter what. And as she smiled at you for the last time, you regretted not telling her that more often.

You remember the pain, refusing to let the nameless faces replace your mother so soon after her death. It was hard enough as it is. You just wanted to only be with your brother. They would try to tell you that they understood the pain, sympathized with your sorrow. Yet their words felt empty and cold. Hollow condolences in the peak of your despair, spending nights alongside your brother when it became too much and destruction was the only cure. It did not take long for the system to finally abandon you, leaving you on the vulgar streets of the city with nowhere to go. It was during those nights you spent with your brother fighting fellow crooks and thieves while threatening innocent men, did you regret forbidding your heart to trust the families who tried to help you.

 

You hand tightens into a fist against the wall from your thoughts before turning off the shower. You step out and grab the lush towel hanging on the wall, rubbing it on your head and down the rest of your drenched body before bringing it back to your face. You look up and catch your reflection in the mirror, looking deep into your own bright amber eyes. You remember how those eyes would stare into the faces of men, taking in their fear of death as you brought down your sword. During those years you worked for the gangs, mercy was not an option. The world gave you none, and you felt no remorse for refusing others the same. For a while, they were good to you. They gave you a chance to make a living with your brother, to give you both some means of a life. However, you knew it could never last. You trusted them as much as you trusted the foster families, if not less. However, they gave you food and money while saying nothing but praise for your fighting skills, therefore you had no reason to complain. It was only a matter of time though before you and your brother would be sacrificed like pawns in a chess game; you just never expected how deep that sacrifice would be. You were not even at legal adult age, yet you and your brother were looking at spending the rest of your time behind bars, or even worse.

 

You toss the towel on the floor as you make your way out of the bathroom and onto your bed. You stare listlessly at the ceiling in the darkness of the room. You remember the nights you used to spend with Jake after a long day on the job. How you felt so connected to him. How you thought he could be the one. You remember those nights when you would just sit together outside under the stars on a bus-stop bench, kissing him passionately as he stroked your hair and whispered beautiful empty promises into your ears. He would always tell you that you deserved more, that you should not have to work for the gangs, that to consider maybe working for him. You would allow yourself a smirk at what you thought was a joke, replying in delightful sarcasm that would always make him smile. He was older than you, much, at least by ten years, but it did not matter to you. You knew he was special the first time he sent you a drink from the back of that lounge while you sat at the bar. You could feel a connection when you spent hours flirting with him in that back booth, sipping scotch and whiskey; and you knew you were infatuated with him, as you rode him long and hard up against the wall in the bathroom stall. You loved him and you thought he felt the same. However it was a young love, covered in lust that burned away quickly after the initial attraction wore off and you realized you barely knew anything about him. You regret not cutting it off sooner and always losing the will to when you looked deep into those vibrant—almost sinful—green eyes.

 

Yet everything changed once you found yourself in the biggest fight of your life; the type of fight where the only useful weapon was a mallet and a pen. In the end you had no choice but to go back to him. You knew that the gang would cheat and bribe and scheme as much as they could to make sure you and Dave would be locked away for good. However you refused to let them win. You knew Jake had money. There was no way someone could buy clothes that nice and scotch that fine if they did not. However, where that money came from, you had no clue. Still, desperate times called for desperate measures, and though you are ashamed to say it, you were _desperate_. He was there for you though, gave you more than a chance at winning your freedom. He called it a gift, telling you he could never bear to see your amber eyes be locked away. However when the money he invested in your case assured him full control over the court, you found that his gift came with conditions, forcing you to work in the LoveShack for the rest of your days.  You and Dave can never leave. It would never matter if you managed to run away or take a sword to his throat. The case was never officially closed—plus both you and Dave are still on file as prime suspects in the death of your former boss—meaning that even if you did leave, the police would be on your tail faster than grease lightning, and your chances of surviving corporal punishment would be next to nothing. If it was only you though, facing the mistakes of the past, that would be one thing. You would not give a damn if they locked you away. Hell, they could put you on death row and no fucks would still be given. However, you are not the only one stuck in this. Dave has been with you every step of the way, through every obstacle you face, and through every consequence your actions receive. That is what you regret most of all.

 

You hate how your brother has to suffer alongside you. You wish it was only you that had to put up with it—the failure of the foster system, the cruelty of the streets, the merciless killings of the gangs, the endless nights of seducing strangers—but you are not. Dave has stood his ground through everything, always by your side. He always goes along with your decisions, no matter what the consequences might be. It hurts you how much he trusts you, even after leading him astray each and every time. You wish he did not have to suffer like you. Your left hand grasps at the sheets while you raise your right arm to hide your eyes from the empty room, letting a shaky breath leave your chest. You take a moment to focus on your breathing, letting it calm you down. Yet it does not heal your pain. Nothing will. Regret is a burden you will be weighted with all your life; you just hope you do not have to pile anymore on top of the collection you have already acquired.

 

Your focus is detoured from the knocking on your door. At first you try to ignore it, uninterested as to who lies behind. However the knock soon becomes a rhythmic beat, trailing into faint murmurs behind the door, and then into very rough knocking which could only be produced by attempting to kick your door down. It persuades you to resentfully leave your bed and slip on the pair of boxers that hang from the edge of your night stand. You grab your bathrobe while you walk through the wide archway separating your bedroom area and veer left, passing your small couch before you open the door. You are neither surprised nor amused at who you find awaiting you.

 

“Sup bro” is the greeting you receive from your brother, clad in a wife-beater and red plaid pajamas bottoms; he is holding a ridiculously large bowl of popcorn encircled by his left arm while we waves a DVD in the air with his right.

 

“Geeth, took you long enough, did you pathth out again in the thhower or thomething?” is the second greeting you immediately receive from Sollux while he clings to a giant fluffy pillow. He is dressed in a light-yellow worn out shirt that barely fits him, evident by the how it has fallen down his entire left shoulder—exposing it—yet not long enough to hide his black boxers with patterns of Nirvana smiley faces all over. You can also see he is carrying a bunch of individually wrapped foreign candies between the pillow and his chest.

 

“What?” You say sternly. Though you are lacking your shades, your expression remains stoic.

 

“Movie time bro,” your brother responds casually, his red eyes unfazed by the disinterest in your amber ones.

 

“No.”

 

“Come on man, you have the TV.”

 

“Sollux has a bunch of TVs, go to his room.”

 

“You know that’s impossible. Oh yeah, let’s go to Sollux’s place and get our movie on. Oh wait we can’t, cause he has to own like a billion screens and have wires and cables and hard drives whirling 24-7. I’m pretty sure the only place he has to sit in there now is his shitty desk chair.”

 

“I have a couch _too_ dipthhit,” Sollux chimes in agitatedly, his growing irritation displayed on his face as he narrows his eyes at Dave. You find it humorous how little Dave is affected by Sollux’s attitude now that they are both about the same height.

 

“Don’t care. Besides, you spend too much time in there anyways and it’s starting to smell weird,” Dave says with a smirk, still looking at you while Sollux grunts in response, a hint of saffron dusting his cheeks in embarrassment.

 

“Still…”you begin, interrupting their banter, “I don’t see what I have to gain from letting you guys in and trashing my pad with your buttered fingers and candy wrappers.”

 

“We brought _Anchorman_.”

 

You pause for a moment, staring him down while he wiggles his eyebrows at you in some ironic attempt to persuade you. Meanwhile, Sollux attempts to busy himself by opening one of his candies with his teeth.

 

“…Fine.”

 

You move out of the way and let them pass, watching them as they walk over to your couch. Dave shoves a few of your smuppets out of the way with his feet, plopping himself on the shag rug. Sollux follows his lead, tossing his pillow against the front of the couch and letting his candies drop to the ground. You sigh and shake your head, bringing yourself to walk over and grab some of the pillows and blankets on your couch to make yourself more comfortable on the floor, situating yourself next to Dave as Sollux crawls across the shag rug to put the DVD in the player.

The truth is you are actually glad they came to your room. You needed something to take your mind off of your thoughts, and Dave does too. You can tell he is still tense, by the way he sitting and practically hugging the popcorn bowl. You know he is nervous about Gamzee, you all are. Gamzee may have lived at the Loveshack the longest, but he is still the youngest out of all of you. Usually on nights like this, Jake would be taking either you or Sollux to his quarters, and occasionally Dave along with you. This is the first time his ever taken Gamzee to his quarters. You can only imagine what the reason would be, and you are positive that Dave has thought of a few ideas himself. You know it bothers him. Being the youngest two out of the group, with only a year separating them, it is easy to see why they have grown especially close. You give your brother a side glance, seeing how hard he is trying to focus on the movie and less on his thoughts. You say nothing. Instead you rest your left hand on his shoulder and rub it a bit, in the hopes of showing him that it will be okay.

 

 

You regret not being able to make that a promise.


	6. You Let Him

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I started this chapter I have witnessed Jupiter, Venus, and a full moon in Capricorn light up my night sky...  
> Either it is a sign from the heavens of what is to come, or a sign that I need to learn to write quicker.  
> Enjoy...
> 
> (PS: I dedicate this chapter to all my friends, especially my precious ashen and the best palebro in the universe.)
> 
> music; [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35Mc1HY_bR8) / [Link](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK05eZ8t1fg)

You let him guide you through the night. Through the darkened hallways of the lower west wing until you reach the staircase in the middle of the hall, its silhouette illuminated by dim wall scones and the soft moonlight. He leads you up the stairs; chained cuff jingling like old coins with each step. You turn left in the small hallway on the second floor, stopping in front the door to his quarters.  He takes a moment to fiddle with his keys.

 

“I have to say Gam-gam…” he begins, his tone calm and almost intimidatingly friendly towards you. Though he can sound a bit suspicious at times, you still find Jake’s voice quite soothing.

 

“It’s been quite a while since you’ve been up here, hasn’t it.”

 

He takes hold of a key, raising his hand up a bit to inspect it in the dim light as he continues to speak.

 

“You’ll have to forgive me if the place is a bit dusty Gam. Trying to manage after a few of our pro skirts have flown the coop leaves me little opportunity to have it cleaned properly. However, I’m sure you’ll still find this old place quite… _swell_.”

 

He looks over his shoulder as he unlocks the door. His sharp green eyes meet yours as he gives you a soft smile. They pierce you, eerie and bright like a predator stalking its prey in the night, making your breath hitch. In turn, you close your eyes a bit as you give him a very big happy grin, avoiding his stare in an attempt to help ease your nerves.

 

“I’m sure it still be looking like it’s all up and covered in motherfucking miracles in there,” you say in response. This earns you a small chuckle from Jake as he looks away, opening the door and leading you into what he calls the “parlor”.

 

You used to visit his quarters quite often. However, since you have gotten older and grew closer to your fellow peers working in the LoveShack, your visits to his quarters have been rare. Still, you remember this place fondly. You think of all the times you fell asleep in front of his black fireplace while reading through some of those old books that line Jake’s antique shelves. All the questions you would ask about the numerous artifacts and how Jake came to own them.  All the times your horns would get stuck on things as you grew taller. You can see the clear tape you used in a clumsy attempt to patch up the painting in the corner, after accidentally tripping and having your right horn rip straight through it. You have made sure to always file down the points to avoid any possible disaster like that from happening ever since.  

As you continue to glance around you feel a hand gently grasp your chained wrist and raise it. You turn to see Jake unlocking the cuff and letting it drop down onto the floor with a soft thud, cushioned by the antique carpet.  You continue to gaze on your wrist while his hand still lingers. His hand is warm and firm. His touch causes your skin to tingle as he slowly brings his hand up to the tips of your clawed fingers, clasping them in his, and moves his palm over them until he is able to grasp your hand comfortably and hold it. You think of the times when they used to seem so much bigger than yours, claws barely reaching the edges of his fingertips. Now your hand is almost his equal. You continue to examine your joined hands until his voice pulls your focus to his body, now leading you towards the second door on the wall to your right.

 

“Come this way Gam-gam. I need to have a little discussion with you. Nothing to get all balled up about, just need to beat one’s gums is all.”

 

He smiles over his shoulder again as he enters the room, green irises dead set on you, evoking you to respond with your go-to smile.

 

“Whatever you say Jake,” you mutter as you pass through the doorway.

 

“First things first though,” he continues, letting go of your hand once you are in the center of the room.

 

“Let’s get comfy shall we?” He walks over to the left and makes his way onto his bed, scooting himself to the center of it. He uses his left hand to help him crisscross his legs while he pats the space in front of him with the other, “Come on Gam, you wouldn’t high-hat me now would you?”

 

You shake your head at him slowly in response, giving yourself a moment to take in your environment. It has been quite some time since you were last in Jakes room. Jake seems to recognize this as he relaxes on the bed, allows you some time to get reacquainted with your surroundings. 

 

The room is built with dark-wood walls, similar to those of the antique bookshelves in the parlor. Much like the parlor, the room is decorated with a variety of various ancient artifacts; a majority of them being weapons. However they pose no threat, bronzed to become part of Jakes antique décor. Gold framed antique maps and paintings fight for dominance against the various weapons mounted on the walls.  Situated in front of the wall ahead is a sage fainting couch, garnished with a few gold-embodied pillows with a velvet blue blanket tossed frivolously over the edge. A few more matching pillows rest on two armchairs set  in the left corner , separated  by a glass round end table displaying a few small artifacts under an antique lamp. On the other side of the wall resides a sharp glass desk cluttered with a laptop, a few books and a sufficient supply of scattered papers.  Situated in between the desk and couch is a slightly opened door, which you recall leads to the bath.  You look over to the right and see four tall arched windows, decorated with plush green velvet curtains pulled open with gold ropes, revealing a lighter second curtain to shield the room from any curious eyes in the courtyard. A very expensive looking antique dresser stands proudly in the middle of them, with an even more expensive TV placed on top. Above the TV are two bronzed swords and a shield mounted like a royal crest on the wall. Antique rugs from the near and far east cover almost every inch of the floor, overlapping carelessly on top of one another.  Dark oak bookshelves stand tall in whatever space is left on the bedroom walls—filled to the brim with a number of novelties, artifacts, and books—while a small wet bar sits near the room’s entrance.

You tilt your head, gaze following the dark-wooden beams upwards on the high-vaulted wood ceiling that unite at the center. A brass lantern imported from the foreign lands hangs from where the beams meet, secured gingerly to a thick chain. Intricate carvings allow for soft yellow light to illuminate from it as your eyes follow the unique shape and form of the lantern, curving like a wide vase and down to a point where a decorative green tassel swings just barely. Six clear tear drop crystals swing softly along with it, dangling from the edges of the widest curve on the lantern.  It gives a certain ambiance to the place. A sliver of light, in an otherwise dark room.

 

“Come sit down with me Gam,” Jake’s voice gathers your attention, reminding you how he has been patiently waiting.  

 

He sits relaxed on his big circular bed, cloaked in beautiful green silk and white satin sheets with countless plush pillows piled around the shell-like headboard. He leans back, resting his weight on his now bare arms; clad in only his dress pants while the rest of his clothes lead a trail off the edge of the bed and onto the floor. You know he is not really fond of his work attire—preferring his flannel shirts and cargo shorts over it any day—so it does not faze you to see that he has scrambled out of them so quickly.

You make your way over to the bed, maneuvering under the netted canopy that encircles it and situate yourself on the spot he had patted in front of him a moment ago. The sheer canopy gives you a very secluded feeling; almost isolated from the outside world, from everything and anything, except Jake.  Neon lights from the city streets below seep through tall arched windows next to the bed, slowly washing the room in a deep fuchsia—almost tyrian—hue through the soft curtains. Jake’s eyes practically illuminate in contrast as he watches you. He gives you a gentle, almost comforting smile as he raises one of his eyebrows.

 

“Oh come on now Gam. It’s just me,” he laughs a little and you cannot help but laugh too as you feel the mood begin to lighten.

 

“Now now…” he begins as he uncrosses his legs, “why don’t you scoot your tootsie over here.”               

 

He pats his legs and opens his arms out wide, awaiting something to embrace. You move slowly and instinctively towards him without question, situating yourself comfortably on his lap, facing him. His arms calmly wrap around you and you relax into the sensation, letting your arms loosely fold around his shoulders. You give Jake a lazy smile when he releases a heavy, relaxing sigh. He looks at you, head tilting a bit upwards as he begins to speak again, his voice sounding more cheery and tranquil, rather than suspicious.

 

“Golly, I must say Gam, it seems like I rarely get to see you anymore. You don’t pop in as much as you used to.  With all the time you spend getting chummy with the others, it almost feels like your _abandoning_ me.”

 

“Nah…I would _never_ motherfuckin’ leave you.”

 

In all reality, you really would not. You would never leave him. You could never leave him. Not even if you wanted to.  You owe everything to Jake. Not only that but, you care for him. Jake has been there for you in ways no one else has ever been. You trust him. The others may criticize him from time to time for the games he has played; however you know he would never lead you astray. He has not done so before, and you doubt he would do so now. He laughs a little as a gentle smile pulls on his face.

 

“Oh Gam-gam, I’m only joshing you. I think it’s the bee’s knees that you get to be with a few owls around your age; Though it does feel good to know that you haven’t stuck me on the back burner just yet.”

 

He moves his hands and begins stroking your sides, making your body tingle beneath his touch as he continues to speak in a softer tone.

 

“And I hope you know I feel the same way Gam. You do know that, right?”

 

You try to answer, yet his hands on your sides keep distracting you, so you choose to nod yes instead.

 

“Good,” he responds softly, looking down at where his hands are placed, gently massaging your skin, “I do worry about you Gam-gam…Whether you’re eating right and staying in tip-top shape…It’s hard to say everything’s chipper when I don’t get to see my little bird as often as I’d like…”

 

It warms your heart when Jake calls you that. It reminds you of how much he has cared for you over the years, and how he still does. You treasure that compassion. It was something you were never given the opportunity to have when you were younger.  It was so long ago, you do not even remember what your guardian looked like. All you remember now is how they left you on the curb without a second thought, not even giving you a second glance. You remember how you stayed there for a long time, sitting on that curb. You used to think of how they would come back for you, hoping that they had made a mistake. You used to pretend that they had lost their train of thought like you do every so often and had a memory lapse, forgetting where they had placed you last. However, you knew not even your absent-mindedness could last that long, much less theirs. Still, you did not want to believe they had abandoned you.

Yet there you were, stranded on the dirty streets of the city’s edges, forced to fend for yourself. You began taking shelter in dumpsters and boxes, eating on whatever scraps you could find in the trash. You were constantly hiding, maneuvering through the shadows and fire escapes to avoid coming into contact with the wicked crooks and people who stalked the night. Eventually you became used to the lifestyle and adapted to it, learning ways to steal food and necessities here and there. However all of that changed when you met Jake. Your breath hitches unintentionally as you feel his nails trace around one of your grub scars, bringing your focus back to his voice.

 

“…On top of that, I’m afraid we might have to start rationing a bit, conserving our electricity and spending, and such.”

 

His brow furrows as he looks down. You are unable to see much of his expression, yet you can sense his sorrow and that concerns you. You try to say something in the hopes of consoling him. However your attempts continue to be futile. Your mind is too preoccupied fighting to control the back small hitches and gasps of air as Jake subconsciously traces circles over your grub scars.

 

“Oh bugger, I hate to be the bearer of bad news; however with the retirement of some of our pro skirts … It no doubtably  has caused quite a burden. The business relies on them just as much as it relies on the four of you. Even though you and the boys produce a very hefty sum of lettuce, you can only collect so much, especially considering the limitations with what can be requested,” He pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath, releasing it in a heavy sigh as he moves his hands up and down your sides, massaging your hips and back with the movements, “…If this keeps up, I fear we may get the bum’s rush out of our own home. Oh but I don’t want to worry you Gam. I just needed to level with someone. You are the only person I feel I can ever shoot the breeze with.”

 

 

You move closer, draping yourself over him as you let your fingers fiddle with the back of Jakes hair. Seeing him like this leaves a sour taste in your mouth. His eyes are darkened and heavy, attention focused on massaging your sides as he pushes you closer to him. You do not wish to lose the LoveShack. It is your home. Not only that, but it is Jake’s home too, the man who has been there for you all these years. You would do anything to help him. You regain enough of your control to speak up in a breathy tone.

 

“C’mon Jake, there’s…gotta be some way I can ah-…motherfuckin’ help out.”

 

“Oh Gam…” he begins, voice trailing for a moment as he rubs his hands all the way up and down your sides as he weaves his hands through the layers of your kimono, until reaching the last layer. The layer is so sheer, so thin. It makes his contact feel so close yet still so far.

 

 “It would be too much to ask of you. You shouldn’t burden yourself with my troubles…”

 

“Well ah-…I could…ya know take ah-some more…motherfuckin’ clients-“

 

 “Gam-gam, as sweet as you are, it’s not about the quantity of the clients, but rather the desires of the clients that pays the bills. Though…”

 

He lets his words linger, pausing his thoughts for a moment. He stills his hands and it makes you shiver in response. You are not sure why but you do not want it to stop. The cold begins to hit you where his warm hands once were. Your arms tighten a bit, muscles contacting in response to the cold as he continues his train of thought.

 

“If you were really willing…and I do mean willing…you could start accepting _gold_ packages… It would cover all the dough lost from those pro skirts blowing us off. Our financial pickle would be diced no doubt…”

 

You look at him a little confused, and a little startled. You are not sure if you heard that correctly. You just got the hang of the bronze package, much less the silver. You are not sure if you can actually do what the _gold_ requires. On top of that, it feels like too much. The others might be more comfortable with feats like that, having probably experienced it long before even entering the LoveShack, yet you are still new to this. Your train of thought falters as Jake slips his right hand out of your kimono, letting the cold emptiness take your focus.

 

“And no need to be scared Gam, I would be sure to teach you… _properly_.”

 

He pulls off his glasses with his free hand, tossing them onto the clothing pile in the floor.  He then unloops your right arm from over his shoulder, holding your hand in his.

 

“Just as I taught you how to use your beautiful hands…”

 

He speaks slowly and softly, somehow bringing more weight to his words, just before he gently kisses the top of your hand. He then returns your arm back to his shoulder.

 

“And those perfect lips of yours…”

 

He brings his right hand slowly up to your face, brushing his thumb across your lips and moves to caress your cheek.

 

“It would be just you and me Gam. No one else…”

 

He starts rubbing your side again with his left hand, using his right to bring your body closer to him.

 

 “If you did this you could save _our_ home.”

 

He switches hands, leaving his right to massage your side while his left cups your head. He kisses you down your neck and across your chest at a torturously slow pace, leaving each spot exposed to the icy air in the room from the warmth of his lips. He moves his hand lower, massaging down the curve your back until he reaches your ass, giving it a tight squeeze. You feel your legs spread a little wider in response, almost losing your balance from being half perch on his lap and half on your knees. The both of you are almost completely flushed together, yet almost is the key word. So close, yet still so far. You can practically feel the heat radiating off of him. It feels so good, yet not good enough. Still it is a wonderful sensation. It reminds you of how much warmth he has given to you throughout the years.

 

You remember it was during the cold season when Jake found you.  You had gone without food for at least three days. By then your clothes were ragged and torn, giving you no sense of warmth. Drips of purple trickled down your face from a skirmish with a crook that cornered you. Though he had made the first strike, bashing your head into the brick wall of the alley, you were able to turn the tables and took your chance, leaving him on the cold hard ground. Unknown to whether he was only unconscious, or dead.  However, your energy did not last for long and before you knew it you found yourself falling to your knees from exhaustion, hands wrapped around your grumbling stomach in a feeble attempt to stay warm. A cold rain began to pour down on to you and as your vision began to blur, you started to believe this was the end. However, you were ok with that. If that is what the world intended for you, then you would accept it. Even back then, you were never one two dell on the bad. You did not want to dwell on the bad, no matter what. Realizing it would only make you feel worse. You let your body slowly lie on the concrete as you become more drenched in the icy rain, shivering. As you looked hazily between the strands of your soaked hair, you noticed two vibrant green dots before being consumed by the dark.

 

You awoke to find yourself in his same round bed and in a new change of clothes. You turned to your left and there he was on the fainting couch, passed out with a book in his lap. You would later come to find that he had taken you home and ordered of the servants help clean you up and put you to bed.  When he woke up, instead of kicking you to the curb, he simply smiled at you and asked if you liked pancakes. Since then he has blessed you with a warm bed and food of the highest quality. He has given you a room to call your own, and has bought you all kinds of objects and décor to make it feel as such. He has even given you an education. When he found you, your education level was next to nothing, having achieved only the most basic abilities in math on your own, while your reading and writing skills remained almost non-existent. However Jake fixed that. He gave you his time, helping you learn to read and write. Before you knew it, you had read every book on his shelves twice, and could write just as fluently.  He has gifted you with so much more than you could have ever thought possible. He removes his lips from your body, bringing your mind back from drifting in your thoughts. He then pulls his face back a bit, bringing his left hand to cup your chin and tilt your face downwards. His voice is deep and heavy.

 

“What do you say?”

 

He looks deep into your eyes. With his glasses gone, you can take in the true beauty of his eyes, shining green like priceless emeralds, and the look he gives you practically steals your breath away. You cannot stop looking at his eyes, even as he brings his left hand down so both his hand encompass your ass. The way he massages it feels so good, very good. You want more of it. He shifts his eyes, looking up and down your body, drinking it in as he licks his lips in such a sultry way, you do not even realize the brush of heated violet on your cheeks. He lets out a small hum, giving your ass a particularly tight squeeze with almost enough pressure to bring you to together, before bringing his hands from your ass to grasp your hip bone firmly, keeping that sliver of distance as he massages the joints your hips with his thumbs. So close yet so far. It is starting to get to you. So much that you do not even realize how wet you have become, until you feel it start to trickle down your thigh. You try to regain your attention back to his question. You are not sure this is right. However you know it will help Jake. You would do anything for him. You owe him so much. Yet, is this really the right way to repay him? Your thought process is immediately halted when he looks at you again, emerald into amethyst, and gives you a smile that sends shivers down your spine. Your heart practically stops when he speaks, tone deep and sensual, leaving every word ringing in your ears and vibrating through your being.

 

“Do you trust me, _Gamzee_?”

 

The way he says your name, so sensual, you completely forget everything. Every thought, every concern, replaced with him and his gorgeous eyes. Your voice is quiet and breathy, barely there as you stare half lidded, placed in a trance by his beautiful irises.

 

“ _Yes…”_

 

Just like that his eyes turn sharp as he meshes you both together, making you melt into him quicker than butter on a hot skillet. He kisses you ferociously in the most amazing way possible. You gasp for breath and he dominates, hunting down your mouth with his tongue, roaming through it like a lion in the safari. He pulls his body back a bit and you whine into his mouth as the loss of warmth. He then works to loosen your kimono until it becomes completely untied and falls down your shoulders, leaving your body opened and exposed to the cold air.  Before you can even react his hands are all over you, ghosting every inch of your body as his mouth begins to attack your neck. You grip his shoulders as he goes to work, biting and sucking, making you tingle and moan. His hands graze everywhere; up and down your spine, around your hips and under your shoulders, fingers clawing across your grub scars, lighting your body on fire with each and every touch. He moves his hands down lower and lower, over your chest and down your stomach, kissing you softly down along your right shoulder, while his hands caress down your hip and over your thighs. You let out a sudden gasp, feeling his right hand move up your back, while he his left hand lingers, palming your bone bugle. You huff and moan with each way he massages and rubs it, only growing louder when he maneuvers his hand underneath and begins rubbing circles into the base of your unsheathing bulge. It uncoils into his hand and he continues stroking the underside to lure it completely out. You can feel it immediately slide along the edges of his palm, weaving in between Jake’s knuckles, slickening up his fingers. It makes you shake all over, breathing heavy as you grip tighter onto his shoulders. He he pulls you closer with his right arm, bringing your chests together and you can feel him smile against your skin before licking up the curve of your neck.

He carefully maneuvers his fingers away from your bulge, and you a whine falls from your mouth at the loss of his touch. However your whine morphs into a moan when your bulge suddenly wraps around his wrist. You moan and sigh as you bring your head to rest on his left shoulder, feeling your bulge pulsing and contracting, attempting to climb further up his forearm. Jake slides his fingers slowly, down past the base of your bulge and you stiffen, practically snapping yourself up straight. You are not sure what to do. You can barely even comprehend that this is actually happening. You start to second guess your decision. Yet you start to consider Jake. The last thing you want to do is disappoint him. Yet you do not feel ready for this. However, before your anxiety can take hold, your thoughts become a hazy blur, forgetting what you were thinking about, letting it fade away as you feel Jakes breath hot against your ear.

 

“ _Don’t think Gamzee_ … _Just trust me._ ”

 

His voice is heated and heavy. You try your best to relax, yet when you feel him ghosting his fingers around your nook your body goes rigid.

 

“ _It’s just me Gamzee…close your eyes…there’s nothing to fear_.”

 

You comply, closing your eyes while you feel his fingers move around the folds, tracing the edges. You can feel yourself getting wetter, material trickling down your thighs. He uses your right hand to aid you in relaxing, rubbing circles into the curve of your spine.

 

“ _Daddy’s here for you Gamzee_.”

 

Something about his words sends a blazing sensation through your body and you moan softly, feeling your legs spread a little wider. You wince a bit as he pushes a finger inside of you, all the way to the knuckle, pressing and rubbing along the walls of your nook. He pulls his finger out a little, just enough so he can add another, pushing them both in entirely. You pant and moan as he massages your inner walls, trying to relax and adjust to the sensitivity. Just when you become more comfortable with it, he pulls his fingers out again, pushing back in roughly with a third, making you almost cry out from the sensation.

 

_“Good boy Gamzee…”_

 

You keel over, nearly clinging to him, resting your head on top of his and hugging him tightly. He begins to push in and out, in and out, sending surges through you and lighting you on fire. Your breath is dry and ragged, feeling every venture inside of you. You do not know how to explain it. It is weird, new, and strange. Yet you want more. It is too much and at the same time not enough. Your hips begin to follow with his motions, grinding down on his fingers as he pushes up into you.

 

“ _That’s the ticket little bird…”_

You cannot take it. You are not sure if you want it to stop or keep going; your brain is too foggy to decide. Just then Jake He twists and turns his fingers, stretching you even more, leaving your mind blank and your mouth panting words you are too delirious to pay attention to. His motions become faster and rugged, and you feel yourself dripping onto the mattress as you struggle to match the pace, riding down on his fingers best you can. You would probably be flushing in embarrassment—worried about ruining his luxurious sheets—if your face was not already heated in a deep purple and your mind fixated on the scorching sensations electrifying you. He then begins to slow down, bringing his heated motions to an agonizingly painful halt, pulling his fingers out entirely and loosening his hand away from your bulge. You lean back a little, a whine escaping your throat. You can feel your nook start to ache and the pulsing of your swollen bulge, both desperate and in need of contact. You open your eyes half way and look at him, pleadingly, yet what you see you do not expect. His eyes have turned a lush dark green, like the rarest of emeralds. He smiles at you in a way that is all too knowing, almost devious, and he brings his hand up to his face. It is covered in a translucent lavender substance, and it takes you a moment to realize that it is your genetic material, taking another moment to register that he just licked his hand, covered in your genetic material and you never thought your nook could ache with so much need until now.

 

“ _Taste just as good as you look.”_

 

You shake with each syllable, every word sending jolts straight to your groin as he looks deep into your half lidded eyes, overpowering you. His name quietly leaves your mouth in response, and he goes in for the kill. Quickly he wipes his hand on the bed and pulls you close. In seconds your world flips around and turns upside-down placing him on top, hovering over you and eyeing you down hungrily like a beast reveling in the capture of its most desired prey. It both mesmerizes and intimidates you, reminding you of the harrowing aches and throbbing below. In one fell swoop he grinds down on you hard, slithering up your body with the momentum as you almost cry out from the sensation, subconsciously locking your legs around him. He licks a strip up your neck and jaw until he reaches your earlobe, sucking on it briefly before licking around the shell of your left ear, stopping to whisper in a husky tone.

 

“ _Daddy is so proud of you, Gamzee…”_

 

He grinds down again, catching your moan with his lips as you grab at the edges of the sheets near your head. He kisses you deeply and you follow his lead as it turns fast and dirty, trying your focus somewhat away from the dripping, aching, pulsating mess that makes up your private anatomy. He grinds down fiercely and you realize he is hard, _very hard_ , behind the constricted cloth. He slides down your body slowly, giving you a chance to breathe and rest your hands by your head, while being smothered in the smoldering body heat between you two. You feel him pepper kisses down and around your chest, and your legs loosen their grip on him, taking advantage of the lull in the pace. Though you still ache, you are able to regain some control over your breathing. That is until you notice how his trail of kisses starts to lead across your upper abdomen, confusing when the kisses stop on the left side of your torso. You feel him smile again against your skin, taking that as a sign to brace yourself for whatever he has planned. Unfortunately your mind does not apparently register this fast enough because before you can prep yourself he starts going to town on your grub scars, using his weight to keep your hips from jutting up as you wail out a very loud and long moan, turning it into breathy chants of Jake’s name and pleases. You are not exactly sure what you are pleading for, but as you grip his hair while he licks and sucks on your scars, it only makes it that much more evident of how much you are in _need_ right now. It is so viciously painful down there—having being touched everywhere but your bulge and nook—you are practically begging for something, _anything_ at this point. You are so desperate and overwhelmed at this point you can feel your eyes becoming moist. You blink and see glimpses of watery lilac before blinking again to let them trickle down your flushed face. You think you must have said something, since Jake stops almost immediately and lifts himself up onto his knees. He looks down at you carnivorously with his half-lidded darkened eyes and you hear a snap. You glance down and seem him unbuttoning his pants lazily, pulling them down and off of him.

 

_“Don’t worry Gamzee…”_

 

He lets his pants drop to the floor.

 

_“Daddy is here for you…”_

 

He shimmies out of his green plaid boxers with casual ease.

 

  _“Daddy loves his little bird…”_

He kicks them off the bed, and looks down at you, smiling so sincerely its almost distrusting.

 

_“I will never abandon you…”_

 

He bends down to kiss you, putting his hands at each side of your head, and then it hits you.

 

**“ _MOTHERFUCK-”_**

 

You cry out vehemently growling it as he pushes into you swiftly. He pulls out and your legs snap onto him, locking on their own. You hear a small snicker before he pushes back into you, stretching you out so fast you are pretty sure something is going to bruise. He continues the pattern, pulling out almost completely, pushing himself back in farther and farther. You cry out with each thrust, arching your back and grasping on to whatever sheets and cloth you can get a hold on, moaning and groaning with each moment, struggling to adjust. Finally, your hips are flushed together and he pauses for a moment. You take advantage and gather your breathing while he mumbles something that sounds like _‘so gosh darn tight’_. You release a heavy sigh once you adjust to him inside you and boy does it steal your breath away. Every single inch of your nook is being pushed and spread by his cock, subsiding the painful aching and granting your wish. What once felt painful and strange starts to feel wonderful, and you never even thought your nook being so full could feel this sensuous.  However, with no movement the ache starts to make a comeback and you attempt to wiggle your hips to motivate him as a breathy plea leaves your lips. He looks at you and flashes that smile again, turning your thoughts into putty.

With a grunt he plunges into you, rough and intense, making your nerves go berserk. You grasp helplessly onto his arms and shoulders, holding on for dear life as you chant out streams of “yes”s and “motherfuck”s from you, persuading him to move faster, setting up a rapid and furious pace. It is so much, too much. Each time he impales you, you feel sparks charge through your whole body and back down to your nook, in a rhythm that is easily beating the both of you into a hot and sweaty mess. You cannot get enough and yet you can feel yourself getting closer and closer to the edge, clinging tighter and tighter to him until the sparks become too much—lighting fuses in you like dynamite marked by the sound of skin smacking together with each violent thrust—and you growl and cry out as loud as you can, holding nothing back.  Eyes shut tight and you still see white, borderline clawing Jake shoulders, gripping him so rigidly it is as if your hold on him is your only way to keep yourself from crashing down into reality. 

You feel each pulse of your high as he keeps going, feeling your genetic mater spread around your thighs and all over the bed. You feel so limp even as you finish, you can barely keep your hands on Jake. However Jake keeps going for a while, pounder even harder and faster into you, until he goes solid above you, and you groan as you feel his release spread into the farthest crevices of your nook. Everything is still for a moment as you both try to tame your heavy breathing. You feel so limp and so exhausted; you do not even think you have the ability to even move. However, unlike you Jake seems to have maintained some energy. He backs up onto his knees—pulling himself out of you with a pop—and your legs immediately unravel from Jake’s hips, snapping together instinctively to aid your nook recover from this new uncomfortable feeling of emptiness.  He wipes up some of the mess on you with the now ruined sheet as he works his way down off of the foot of the bed. Once standing, he suddenly takes hold of the sheet and yanks it off with such speed it slides right out from under you, coaxing a startled noise out of you quickly in response.  You watch him clean the rest of his lower body with the sheet before dropping it to the floor. Your tired eyes follow him as he walks over to the fainting couch and grabs the blue blanket, letting the pillows fall to the floor as well. You feel the mattress sink slightly as he climbs back on, situating himself on the pillows just above you. He stretches his arm down, grabs your hand and drags you up closer to him before he tosses the blanket over the bed, pulling the covers over the both of you. Yet it becomes evident that he too has run out of stamina. He shifts drowsily onto his stomach and presses his face into the lush pillows with a sigh of content, just before stretching out his left arm and enclosing it around your chest and arms. You also breath out a sigh, feeling you heart rate stabilize as the high begins to wear off. 

You lay there for a moment, heavy-lidded eyes staring hazily at the lantern in the center of the room. You feel your entire body slowly becoming heavier and sore, however your head is too weary to  even pay heed to it. As you close your eyes, a thought drifts into your mind, echoing in the back of your head before following Jake’s lead again, traversing into a very deep slumber.

 

 

_‘What did I just motherfuckin’ do…’_


	7. It Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote a poem a while ago in honor of the New Moon.  
> My ashen thought it would be fitting to post it along with the chapter;
> 
>  
> 
> _I once believed the moon was my friend,_  
>  _Shining down on me now and then,_  
>  _Giving me light in the dark again and again,_  
>  _I really believed the moon was my friend._
> 
>  
> 
> _But then the shadows came and he hid from me,_  
>  _Refusing to recognize what he could not see,_  
>  _Letting me fall into the dark cold sea,_  
>  _I miss when the moon was my friend._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> music; [Link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kzh0fz0ZeSY)

It Hurts.

 

 

                Something does, yet you are not quite sure what. Still you keep your eyes closed, allowing the remnants of sleep to evolve into a light and peaceful doze. You breathe calmly, relaxing into the soft sheets, and inhale the fresh scent of clean linens as you bathe in their comforting warmth. Occasionally you hear the sounds of clicks and clanks in the distance, muffled by the room’s thick walls. Aside from the faded noise, you are left in a tranquil silence; the peaceful quiet of the morning soothing you, aiding you in drifting slowly back to sleep. However something begins to draw your attention, keeping you from the sweet promise of slumber. It is dull at first, unnoticeable. Yet the more time passes the more it flows, spreading throughout the room and diverting your focus. It is faint, delicate; the scent of something sweet, something familiar. It begins to envelop your senses, further consuming your thoughts. The aroma perplexes you. You have smelled it before, yet you cannot quite decipher its identity. You ponder whether the scent is food-related; the smell of waffles in particular. As the aroma becomes stronger, you question it further. It could be muffins, or crêpes. Or it could something even better, pancakes. You hope it is pancakes. Fresh made pancakes that contain blueberries and chocolate chips, drenched a gracious supply of syrup and butter. Now those would be delicious.

Unless of course, they are made with that weird whole wheat flour Dirk likes. It would be such a wasted opportunity for potentially fantastic pancakes. You would still eat them though. You feel your stomach begin to growl in anticipation.

 

Wearily you try to open your eyes, struggling with the lingering heaviness of sleep; they stay half-lidded as you await the clouded vision of drowsiness to lift from your sight. You close your eyes and breathe in, rotating your neck and shoulders as you stretch out your back. Exhaling, you reopen your eyes halfway to gaze over the edge of the bed as you continue lying on your right side. You stare lazily at the floor through the parted netting, observing the patterns of the soft morning light as it shines through the tall window, highlighting one of the intricately hand-woven rugs overlapping a few others on the floor. Your eyes follow the trim of the sheer curtains, barely flowing, ghosting over the edges of the rug. After a moment you blink again, slowly bringing your left hand to rub over your still tired eyes in an attempt to rid the ashes of sleep. Your vision becomes clearer, and as you return your stare to the floor below, you begin to realize something. You do not recall ever having such an expensive rug in your room before, nor any sheer curtains and netting near your bed.

You groan a bit from the stiffness of your body as you prop yourself up with your right arm, returning your left hand to your face, rubbing the bridge of your nose between your fingers. You scrunch your eyes tight before fluttering them, attempting to increase your focus. You look around, shifting your head a bit as you reacquaint yourself with the surroundings. You forgot. You are in Jake's room.

 

Your bracelets jingle as you raise yourself up higher until you are able to sit upright, shifting your legs in the process and _oh_ ; you think you figured out what might be hurting. You instantly cringe and hiss from the stinging pain between your thighs, not paying mind to where your left arm is rashly flailing. Though just as you realize Jake is in your line of fire and about to get smacked, your realization comes too late to stop the motion. Yet, as your mind reverts to preparing for awkward apologies, your palm lands on the mattress, hitting nothing but the sheets. You turn, peeking over your shoulder. It is empty. Where a body once slept now remains tousled sheets and disorganized pillows. You feel the area a bit with your hand, sensing the coldness along your fingertips. You listen and hear no shower running. You glimpse upward and you see no one lying on the fainting couch, nor a note claiming his absence on the nightstand by his bedside. Further examining the room you realize the clothes once strewn on the floor have disappeared as well, glasses included. You wonder how long he has been gone. With two knocks the bedroom door flies open and your attention immediately snaps to the door, meeting the eyes of one of the servants as she maintains a calm yet surprised look on her face, stopping halfway through the entrance.

 

"Oh my, I am terribly sorry. I did not know you were awake. Pardon my intrusion on your privacy."

 

It takes you a minute to let her words sink in, reminding you that you are in fact, still naked. You slowly pull the sheets up to your chest instinctively, wishing the netting was still encircled around the bed.

 

"Nah it's all chill. You ain't bothering me..."

 

You rake your left hand through your hair, feeling how it is much more wild and frizzy than usual. Your mind replays blurry visions of the night before when you question how it got so messy. You feel your cheeks flush a bit as your brain starts to comprehend the entire scenario you are currently in the midst of, making it more complicated to phrase your thoughts than it should be as you continue.

 

"It's just uh..."

 

Your words trail as you glance back at the empty spot beside you. You shake and scratch your head slightly with your right hand as you speak, creating a muddled jingle with your bracelets as you work to return your focus onto the servant.

 

"Do you know where Jake all up and...Motherfuckin' went?"

 

"Oh yes," she responds politely, "the worker on the first period informed me that he had to attend a meeting in the financial district and left not long after his shift began."

 

"So...He ain't been around for a while, huh."

 

"Indeed," she responds factually before adjusting her glasses, "However he has given us direct orders that when you wake to inquire about your hunger. Would you care for some brunch? Some cinnamon rolls have been freshly prepared. Or perhaps you would prefer something to drink first?"

 

"Nah I-" you cringe again as you shift a little, feeling the soreness run down your legs. Yet as you comb through your hair again, you put on a relaxed smile, speaking to her in the calmest and gentlest voice you can muster.

 

"I am _oustandin'_ my friend...Not even hungry...Not one motherfuckin' bit. Just gettin' my wicked relax on right now is all..."

 

A brief moment passes with your relaxed gaze trapped in her suspicious one. You give her your go-to smile, resisting the urge to make a run for anywhere but here in order to escape her leer, her, this room, this entire situation.

 

"And no need at gettin' caught up in vexation my friend..." You add, knowing what she is waiting to hear, "I'll be givin' him a big thanks for having you come and check up on me when he gets back..."

 

With a disapproving " _humph"_ and a "very well then," she straightens herself up and back-tracks her steps, pulling the door along with her.

 

"If you are in need of anything, please do not hesitate to inquire. Until then I shall leave and check up on you later...And again," she adds apathetically through the narrowing crack of the doorway.

 

"Please pardon my intrusion."

 

The wood door shuts tight with a clack of the door handle.

 

You wait for the foot-steps to grow distant, listening carefully as the tapping of her low heels meld back into the silence of the room, queuing you to scramble out of the bed. However, smooth getaways were never your forte, resulting in your legs tangling amidst the messy sheets in your haste. You swiftly kick your left leg free as you make your way across Jake's side. Just as you are about to hop off of Jake's bed—yanking your left leg over the edge—your right leg becomes completely trapped in the vice grips of the covers, throwing you off-balance. In a last-minute attempt to regain it, your left hand grips the corner of the nightstand for leverage, winding up with half your body over the edge of the bed and doing the splits across it and _oh man_ , that is **_not_** what you needed right now. Instant pain shoots straight down to your thighs and groin, snapping your legs together while your hands instinctively go to cup your bone bulge as you shift and cringe.

 

" _motherfu-aw SHIT!!_ "

 

You yelp as you fall off the bed backwards, flailing uselessly before hitting the ground with an " _oomph"_ accompanied with the sharp sound of your bracelets clanging, all while dragging half the covers down along with you. You groan in displeasure as a small, round pillow from the bed rolls off and flops on your face.

 

You lay there on the ground—half tangled in the sheets—naked and sprawled out on one of the many rugs. You fist your hands in an attempt to distract from the screeching pain that has seemed to ignite every other ache and sting inside your body. You do not even know how you could have gotten this sore. Flashbacks of last night remind you that you actually do. Your brain also reminds you that you yelped pretty loudly a few seconds ago, and now you are hoping that no one heard you. You lay as stiff as you can, hushed as you listen for any sounds outside the bedroom door. You hear faint footsteps, calm and sluggish, stopping every so often. You start to think that the servant might still be preoccupied tending to other things and by some miracle did not hear you. With a grunt, you roll over onto your stomach, pushing yourself up with your hands. You position your legs to sit mermaid-style; right leg on top so you can work to free it from the masses of expensive cloth.

As you liberate yourself from the majority of the sheets, you view around the room in search of your robes from last night. Unfortunately, you find no sight of them. You presume they must have been taken along with Jake's clothes to be washed and put away. You hear the sound of footsteps—though still scarce—are becoming more boisterous now, risking the chance of her return. While you scan the room for some sort of temporary clothing, your eye catches something. You turn towards the armchairs adjacent to the fainting couch, where it lays draped over the arm of the chair nearest you, slightly disheveled from being casted so nonchalantly.

Lime-green silk shines in the dimmed morning light, displaying sage-colored embroidery of detailed flowers entwined with vines and other patterns you cannot quite identify. The cuffs are rolled up, revealing plush silk in an array of colors that seem to almost alternate shades in different degrees of light. The lapels match the cuffs, trailing colorfully along the length of the green silk. Gold piping graces the edges of the cuffs and lapels, trimming the tops of two silk pockets as well, partially hidden under a thin dark-sage tie. After being distracted for a moment by the alluring shimmer, you recognize that this is Jake's smoking jacket. You are hesitant to reach for it. However as you hear the tapping of heels start to close in, you immediately grab it, wrenching yourself up with the momentum and doing your best to ignore the pain as you slip it on. Though you may be around the same height as Jake now—possibly even taller—the coat still trails heavily onto the floor. You clutch the fabric in front of your chest, covering your torso while your right hand bunches up as much as it can of the bottom-half, enabling you to better move without tripping. Silent and swift, you make your way over to the right arched window by the TV, passing the small wet bar. You unhook the latch with a gentle flick of your claw and step out onto the balcony, closing it behind you as mutely as possible.

 

The morning light is bright outside of Jake's room, forcing you to create a visor with your left hand as you look across the courtyard and over to the other side of the building. Thankfully the sun rises on West wing, casting a shadow big enough for you to be travel without having the sun inhibiting your sight. The back courtyard is fairly grand, surrounded by the Loveshack on three parts. It is protected by a massive stone wall, reaching the same height of the Loveshack itself. The wall is pristine and kept well maintained just like the rest of the building. There are no cracks or seams, looking as smooth and solid as the rest of the Loveshack, aside from a few vines creeping upward near the top. It encases the courtyard, giving it a very symmetrical and square shape. You remember trying to climb the wall once out of curiosity. However the stone was so smooth there was nothing to grasp except for the vines, which unfortunately could not withstand your weight for even a mere three seconds. You recall later asking Jake why it was so tall and smooth.

 

"It's simple really," he would inform you as he assisted in untangling some vines from your horns, "It keeps all the unwanted bushwa and hooligans out, and keeping us safe inside."

 

You have wondered at times if the other side of the wall is just as polished-looking. Regardless, your fondness for it has always been minute. However, the court yard itself is something that you have always enjoyed. With your current view you can enjoy its beauty on an amazing scale.

 

In the center of the courtyard rests a beautiful rectangular pool, slightly raised and tiled with turquoise. Four small fountains are spread evenly across it, water flowing gently from them like waterfalls in a stream. The water continues to flow from the rectangular pool through four symmetrical openings centered on each side. It flows down into a canal that frames the pool, then outward in four different directions to a larger rectangle canal, irrigating the exotic flowers and foliage in-between. There are polished stone pathways, reflecting the pattern of the water and framing the size of the courtyard along the trails of flowers and plants that line themselves against the walls. A slightly- raised stone porch stretches the entire length of the building, each wing having a small stone stairwell that meets one of three paths. Meanwhile the last path leads to a shaded patio area near the stone wall, fenced by shrubs. Exotic foliage and abundant fruit-bearing trees are skillfully landscaped to keep in balance with the smaller, more delicate flowers and grass. You smile softly, regarding your fondness for the garden. You think of all the days you have spent walking around and gazing into the water; how you would become so transfixed, you would occasionally fall in, looking up through your wet hair to see Jake glowering down at you, unamused with arms crossed, while you would smile at him in return. All the times you would take a book to practice reading in the patio while Jake sipped his tea, correcting your mistakes every so often as you read aloud. All the moments spent under the trees, munching on plums and pomegranates while listening to music and playing videogames on your laptop, until Jake would catch you, saying if you did not hurry then plums and pomegranates would be your only dinner. Your smile falters.

You return your thoughts to your current objective as you make your way down the spiral staircase on the right of the balcony. You focus on controlling your noise level as you step down onto the porch and continue the journey to the other wing, hoping to remain undetected. As you trudge to your destination—studying the various doors and windows you pass along the main branch for signs of activity—your mind cannot help but slip small clips of nostalgia into your head. You clench tighter onto the fabric of Jake’s smoking jacket as your mind forces you to reminisce about him, only breaking its trail of memories to sharply alert you about the ever-growing pain between your legs, stinging with each quick step. You long to just be in your room, alone. You wish you would stop thinking of the Loveshack, or the events of last night. You especially wish you would stop thinking of Jake.

You finally make your way to the other end of the porch, opening the entrance prudently, allotting yourself just enough space to slip through and close it swiftly behind you. You creep down the hall southward, skulking through the heavy shadows casted by the dark walls until you reach the door on the left. Keeping a close eye out for anyone, you open the door at such a delicate pace, treating it as if it were made of glass. Once it is opened just enough you repeat your pattern, sliding in and shutting it cautiously behind. You make sure the door is securely closed before sneaking your way up the staircase to your right. Unlike before, you take your time, with movements more calculated and wary. You pace yourself as you walk up the dark-wood stairs, trying to remember which steps creak the loudest. As you reach about halfway up, you peak under the banister railing at the top, spying to see whether the coast is clear. Seeing no clear signs of movement, you risk a few more steps until you are near the top so you can achieve a better view. You see no one. In fact, you can barely see anything. Noticing that the drapes are still closed, you find it unlikely anyone has even ventured out of their rooms yet either. You cannot help but breathe a small sigh of relief. Still you take caution as you begin to make your way across the darkened room, continuously reevaluating your surroundings with touches from your left hand to avoid your absent-mindedness and the darkness getting the best of you.

 

As you begin to trek pass the dining table, you suddenly hear the muffled sound of heavy-bass music on the way to your room, diverting your attention immediately to the wall across from you. Four doors line the wall, each one leading to a separate sleeping quarters. You notice the music is coming from the second room on the left, which means Dave must have forgotten to turn off the volume on his alarm, again. You then hear a loud banging against a wall from the room to the right of his, accompanied by some muffled yelling. If Sollux was not awake before, you are more than positive he is now. However, being aware of Sollux’s morning routine, him being awake does not faze you in the slightest. As you continue your journey, weaving your way through the sitting area, you notice that Dirk's door is open and you freeze. Once Dave’s alarm is shut off and the bickering ceases, you hear a faint rumbling coming from Dirk’s room. He is snoring. Knowing that, you are sure he will not wake up for at least another hour or so. You take a few steps until you reach the far left of the wall and you quietly enter your room.

You turn around to face the door and use both your hands to close it gently, letting go of the handle once you hear the final click. With a heavy sigh you press your head against the door. You begin to revel in the silence that accompanies your achievement. Finally, you are in your room. Finally, you are alone. After a moment you sluggishly shift your body and lumber over to your bed, situated lengthwise against the right wall. You flop onto it face-first, sinking a little into the mattress as the heaviness of fatigue spreads throughout your body. You stay still and silent, too tired to even pull the covers over you. As you lay there, cloaked only in Jake’s smoking jacket, you hear the soft ticking of a small clock that rests on the low-bookshelf positioned at the foot of your bed, slowly keeping tempo of the ever growing quiet. With your face half-pressed into your pillows you gaze lazily around your room.

 

Just like in the main quarters and the other rooms, yours is built with the same plain white walls and plain wood floors. Despite that however, your room remains zestful, laced with a number of furnishings and items that reflect your interests. On the wall across from you stands your wooden desk, the same dark espresso color like the rest of the main furnishings in your room. Its design is simple, built with three small drawers on each side and one long drawer just above the leg space, where your desk chair is currently presiding. Though it is practical, it is not organized by a long shot. The top of your desk is cluttered with your laptop, some sheet music, and various pieces from your embroidery kit. It was originally given to you by Dirk as a gag-gift in part of some inside joke you made about smuppets a few years back. Incidentally however, it soon became one of your most favored hobbies. The evidence can be seen by how half of your desk drawers are jammed-packed with an assortment of fabrics, threads, and overflowing with other supplies you have continuously acquired while improving on your craft. Your desk is wedged in between two very large, very thick bookshelves, which house the majority of your chaotic book collection. They are displayed with no real organization, yet they bring some much needed color to your room.

You can see the soft pastel yellows, greens and violets of your gardening on the right bookshelf; mixed in with the deep sage, orange-red, and navy blue books containing a number of famous fictional classics in their pages. Mismatched throughout are the white, grey, and black spines of poetry books—both classic and modern—crammed with various pieces of paper that peak out over their covers and bindings. Some papers contain notes you have made while studying them, trying to understand how they work, while others have your written attempts from being inspired to create your own. In the left bookshelf, you observe the vibrant orange, red, and green of your music books. They are interwoven with multi-colored, abstract edges of your comic books along towards the bottom of the shelf. The middle is laced with mostly the deep purple and teal blue of books containing knowledge about palmistry and astrology, along with some black-binded books containing depictions of street art and facts about voodoo that you sometimes like to skim through just for kicks. Looking towards the top you recognize the cheery pinks and lavenders of your sewing and embroidery books, decorated with colorful sticky notes to help you remember certain techniques. They typically stand alongside the much more vibrant fuchsia, seafoam, citron, and cream colors of your baking and cooking books. However, it feels as though a few of them are missing. It strikes you as a bit odd, considering you do not recall using them recently. However, you assume they have just been misplaced them in the piles of other books you have, awaiting to be shelved in the back room of your sleeping quarters.

 

Aside from that, the main section of your bedroom does not have much else to offer in your line of sight. Tilting your head a bit, you catch a glimpse of the right wall adjacent to your desk. It displays your artistic masterpiece of misaligned posters; tapped and overlaid to create a collage of your favorite rap-artists, indie bands, movies and TV-shows. Against the wall is a small dresser that you store your notebooks, embroidery pieces, knickknacks and some burned CDs. On top of it rest some videogames and something else you cannot seem to make out. Tilting your head a bit higher you are able to see part of the other section through the wide open entrance on the wall beside you.

You notice your dark amaranth curtains—patterned with polka dots in shades of mint, blood red, and matte gold—which match the design of your bedspread. They are pulled back just enough to let in some sunlight without lightening up your entire quarters. The light glows softly down onto what you like to call your “makeshift indoor garden”. In reality it is not much of a garden. Regardless, you still adore it. Large pots of various flowers and tomatoes near the front of the window; while terrariums of thyme, rosemary, and mint hang from the ceiling. In the corner of the back room, where most of the light shines, you can see a few of the branches peeking out from behind the wall blocking the rest of your view. The branches are part of your kumquat plant, which has become your newest gardening project. You have never really grown a tree before. However, you have heard you can make marmalade out of its fruit—and with wanting to attempt growing tree for some time—you figured a kumquat plant was a good start. Though it is far from bearing any actual fruit yet, you can tell it is still growing at a steady pace.

Since you made the main room of your quarters your sleeping area, there is not much else in the back room, except for some books and your closet. Turning your head, you are finally recognize the item on your dresser; your ukulele. You immediately bring your head down to the pillows with a groan as memories flood your mind yet again.

Pressing your left arm against your head, you recall how Jake had brought that for you from a business trip so many years ago. You used to practice it every day, learning every note and tune, until you knew that ukulele like the back of your hand. How you would work so hard, figuring out how to play different melodies and reading sheet music, until flawless sound of stings filled your room. How you would search for new songs and covers of some of Jake’s favorites in the hopes of impressing him. How you would take advantage of those rare occasions when he would ask you to play for him, which afterwards he would always applaud and give you a smile.

 

 _“My little bird always chirps the prettiest tunes,”_ he would tell you, patting your head in a job well done; leaving you feeling as though you were skipping across cloud nine.

 

You bring your hands to your eyes, covering them from the light. However this does nothing to divert your mind. Now all you can see is him. Jake. You see his auburn brown hair and vibrant emerald-green eyes. His light-caramel colored skin and toned muscles. The slight scruff around his jaw that is barely visible in the daylight when he looks down on you in the garden, yet defines his face in the dim light of the night as he hovered over you, kissing and touching you all over. You grunt out of frustration before peeking through your fingers, hoping to find something that would take your mind off him.

However it just makes the thoughts worse. He is everywhere you look. There are the gold trinkets and souvenirs he has brought you from faraway lands, strewn across your low bookshelf and desk. There are the small harlequin dolls he has given you which sit precariously along your bookshelves and dresser. Even the mattress you lay on reminds you of him. He had it custom made for you so it would accommodate not only your height, but your horns comfortably as well. With a bounce and a growl you swiftly shift over onto your left side. Your bracelets jingle in discord as you feel every stiff muscle ache with the move; meanwhile your legs rub together and flare up the chronic burning and stinging sensations that repeatedly plague you. You keep your hands clasped together and stick them in-between your thighs to keep them from touching while you adjust yourself until you are facing the plain white wall against your bed. Using your right foot, you scoot one of the pillows near your feet until it is in between your legs, replacing the job of your hands. You then take a moment to pull off your bracelets, laying them gently by the clock on the low-bookshelf, before bringing your hands by your head.

You close your eyes again, trying to focus on only the sound of the ticking, letting your breath follow its slow pace as you do your best to ignore the pain and the soreness coursing through your body. You continue to focus on the ticking, and only the ticking, counting the seconds in your head like Dave does. As you start to relax—feeling your fatigue take hold—you subconsciously pull up the robe closer to your face like a blanket, forgetting that it is Jake’s smoking jacket. You inhale deeply, breathing in the scent. It smells strongly of cigar smoke, black tea, and scotch; while beneath it lies the faint aroma of sandalwood and something entirely Jake. You try not to think about what the scents mean to you. Instead, you simply continue to breathe in and out. Soon you begin to find the aromas soothing, helping you further relax and ignore all of your aches and pains, until your mind finally goes dark.

 

 

A sudden knock on your door takes your attention. As you open your eyes you find yourself huddled up, practically in a ball. You must have fallen asleep. You hear the door open, and close casually. Bare footsteps calmly make their way over to your bed and you feel someone sit down on the edge near your feet. Although you now feel more rested, you still feel the soreness and tension strongly throughout your body, and thus make no efforts to move. However, while peeking through the strands of your mussy hair, you can make out who it is.

You notice a head of light blonde hair, on a body that is hunched over, with elbows resting on their knees. They are wearing red plaid pajama pants and a white wife-beater. Their hair still shows signs of some bed head, yet for the most part has seemed to be combed down and styled. The faint glow of some handheld device reflects onto red eyes briefly, before being placed on the bed.

 

“Hey...” He says nonchalantly, slightly shoving you on the shoulder.

 

“You awake?”

 

You give a groan in response, not feeling up to saying any actual words yet. The room stays quiet for a moment as each of you says nothing. You can see the slight shifts of his arms and hands in the corner of your eye, as he looks down at his feet.

 

“So he did it, didn’t he,” Dave concludes, solemn hidden in the casual tone of his voice.

 

You say nothing, keeping your eyes on the white wall, as you hear him continue.

 

“Congrats on finally getting your grape cherry popped.”

 

Using only your right arm, you take the pillow from under your head and throw it at Dave’s face. You witness from the corner of your eye that it makes a direct hit. Dave tries to hold in a laugh, letting out a snort in the process, and before you know it you are both snickering. However, your snickers turn into a hiss when you subconsciously shift your legs again and cringe from the pain.

 

“Looks like you were doin’ it rough last night,” he comments as you hear him pick up his device and scroll through, “rougher than some mammals on the Discovery Channel.”

 

You cannot help but smile as he continues to hum bits of the chorus line from “The Bad Touch” while he scrolls through his device.

 

“Ok…” Dave says softly to himself. He then tosses the phone back on the bed with a “got it” as he stands up. You look up at him with an eyebrow quirked as he walks passed your bed and through the opening to the other room, before walking through the bathroom door. Soon after, you hear the sound of the bathtub filling up and various items being moved around the bathroom. Dave calls out, voice slightly echoing off the tile in the bathroom.

 

“Yo Gam, c’mere for a sec!”

 

You stay where you are, only letting out a groan in response.

 

“Gam-Zee …”

 

Still, you refuse to budge. A good amount of time passes before he speaks again.

 

“Actually it’s cool. Don’t come. I’ll just start belting out some Freddie Mercury up in here instead so it’s all good an-“

 

“Mothafucka, _calm down!_ I’m comin’!” You call back as you push yourself up from the bed.

 

Although Dave is a friend with many talents, when it comes to singing he will purposely do so in the most over-the-top and tone-deaf way possible; which means the sheer concept of him yelling the lyrics to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ in your echoic bathroom is enough to persuade you get out of bed and to agonizingly drag yourself over there.

 

“You mean you came… _Last night!_ ”

 

You catch him in the midst of an “aww yeah” as you lean against the bathroom door frame. You see him bent down near the faucet, testing the water of the tub, which is now about over half-way full. You look at him quizzically while he turns off the faucets.

 

“Mind tellin’ a bro why y’all up in his bathroom?” you inquire. You have to admit you are kind of confused.

 

“To save a bro’s bang-hole from getting any more chaffed than it already is,” he states factually as he stands up, dusting off his hands. He then turns to look over at you as he points down.

 

“Ok dude, strip down and get in the tub,” he instructs.

 

However before you can protest he casually adds, “And don’t try to give me that ‘ _Omg I can’t undress in front of you_ ’ crap like some cheesy teenage ‘girl-next-door’ talking to her virgin neighbor-boy. You know I’ve seen plenty of privates before and I can guarantee yours ain’t going to be the last…Besides, you’re already flashing me your ken-doll crotch.”

 

Without breaking eye-contact he points his finger down. You follow his aim and discover that you have left the robe completely open, leaving none of your anatomy to the imagination. You sigh in surrender.

 

“Alright man, you win.”

 

You give him a slight smile, and he smirks in return as he moves over to set a fresh towel on your towel rack. Meanwhile you walk over to your sink and grab your hair brush, giving your hair a quick comb before pulling it back with a hair tie and heading over to the tub, letting Jake’s robe fall to the floor in the process. You hear Dave mutter what sounds like _about time_ when he takes your back brush from the shower rack, and uses it to pick up the smoking jacket and swiftly carry it out of the room.

Once you slide into the tub you instantly feel a cooling sense of relief. The water is not freezing but it’s just cold enough to help with the incessant burning you have been dealing with all morning. You open your legs back a bit in the tub, humming in appreciation as you let the water repose and heal you. You forget how good baths can actually be. You really should take them more often. In a few moments your mind begins to drift, and you think about your plants. You need to check and see which ones need to be watered today. You also have to prune the tree a bit. You hope it starts growing fruit soon. It would be nice to try out some new recipes, maybe even create your own.

You are knocked out of your train of thought when you hear a door open and shut. You here foot-steps coming closer and in the door-frame Dave reappears. You did not even realize he left the room. He has a few items in tow that you do not pay attention to, along with his handheld device. You return to basking in the therapeutic water as he takes a seat on the toilet behind you. You smile as you start to speak.

 

“Man…I hope you ain’t thinkin’ of taken a motherfuckin dump in here while I’m all at getttin’ my wicked relax on. Cause if you are that’s some pretty fucked up shi-”

 

Dave starts chuckling before you even finish your sentence, “C’mon man, you know I at least has _some_ class. Besides, your can isn’t up to par with my porcelain throne. I’m not interested in using a bathroom guarded by weird ass clowns dolls and has no good reading material.”

 

You let out a snort. You can never keep yourself from smiling or laughing around Dave. The guy can be ridiculous, over-the-top, and a little cocky at times, but in the end he is still your friend and one of the few people out there that really gets you. You wish Jake was more like that. Not that you do not hold any affection towards Jake.

Truth is you care about him a lot. He pretty much raised you after all. Went out of his way to give you a home from the cold rain and never once thought about kicking you to the curb. He has spent so much time being there for you, teaching you things you thought you would never accomplish, making sure you are well fed and dressed. However, as much as you care for him, looking back it always felt like there was just something missing. The way he looks at you, the fondness in his eyes. The way he smiles at you, holds you, laughs with you. The way he talks with you, showing hints of his vulnerability only to you. These are all things you cherish about Jake, and yet there is always something off about them. As if there is something you are not getting. Maybe you are over-thinking it. Maybe it is just your mind playing tricks on you. It is Jake after all. This is the man who surprises you with gifts from far-off lands. Who sips his tea in the garden, hiding his enjoyment when reading comic section of the newspaper. You always enjoyed talking to Jake, listening about all his adventures and stories; yet whenever you would talk to him, or share things with him, or just try to connect about the things _you_ like, he always felt so…distant. As if his mind is elsewhere. You have always just assumed it was because of business. Jake has habitually been a very busy man after all, with his constant trips and business meetings. It would not be right to consider that he has a lot on his plate, especially with the new financial problems the Loveshack has been recently facing.

You feel the atmosphere become heavy in the growing quiet while your mind continues to analyze Jake. Wondering about him, what he is thinking, why he did not leave a note for you this morning, or just tell you for that matter. You wish he would tell you things more often. However the older you have gotten, the less he seems interested in informing you about his agenda. Does he even want you to know? Does he even care? That is ridiculous. Of course he cares. Why else would he open up to you like he did last night? Why else would he praise you and treat you so kindly? Jake does cares for you. You _know_ that. He even said it right to your face. Though, if that is the case, then why is it when he was with you he appeared so…detached. You relive glimpses of last night in your head. The way he looked at you, his words, his promises. For some reason, it all just seems so...hollow. Still, you made that choice; it had nothing to do with Jake. You did it because you knew it was going to help him. He _told_ you it would save you both. You believe him. This is Jake. You trust him. He has no reason to lie or to trick you. He _cares_ for you. He would never abandon you…and yet, why does everything just… _hurt?_

 

“Here.”

 

Dave’s voice breaks the everlasting silence and you look up to see he is holding something in front of your face.

 

“Sorry they aren’t wrapped. I was going to give them to you later with the rest of the guys, but I think it would be cooler to give them to you now.”

 

You take hold of the items he has given you, allowing him to return to sitting on the toilet. You take a moment to observe the items. One item is a really cool-looking book on slam poetry, while the other is a CD to one of your favorite artists that you did not even know was out yet. You stare at the items with both confusion and wonderment for more than what could be counted as a moment.

 

“Seriously dude,” Dave chuckles softly behind you, “don’t tell me you forgot? Why else do you think I was asking you about presents last night?”

 

Oh right. You forgot. It was last night. Your hands tighten their hold on your gifts as you replay yesterday’s events in your head again. You lean against the wall of the tub.

 

“Thanks bro…” you say quietly in an attempt to keep your voice from shaking.

 

“No problem…” he responds softly.

 

“….Happy 16th Birthday Gamzee.”

 

 

 

 

You watch as lilac droplets fall into the clear water below.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. The Soft Light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has literally been over a year in the making, and I am regretful for the delay. This past year has had some heavy ups and heavy downs. However it feels so rewarding to finally be able to post this chapter. Thank you to all who have stayed dedicated to my story; it has really helped motivate and inspire me to keep going.
> 
> I was originally going to wait to post this and possibly make cuts to certain sections and edits. However I don't really wish to postpone this any longer, so I apologize if the chapter seems to stretch out for too long, or if there are overlooked mistakes. Its mostly a transition chapter, since things are going to start picking up quite soon.
> 
> Regardless I do hope you can still enjoy~
> 
> music: [link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuC4aL-4-n0) / [ link](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZWZ3Zq3JtFc)

 

 

 

      The soft light of the mid-morning sun glimmers through the windows and against the obscure towers of lackluster metal. Yet not even their dull shine can distract you from the atrocity you have currently set your sights upon; feeling your chest grow weary as you observe it in dissatisfaction and shame. Two Teflon pans sit across from each other, placed upon two of the four electric burners constructed into a simple white stove. The stove-light above you shines down upon them, bestowing the perfect spotlight for your disaster. Though they may be equal in their placement, the contents of the pans are a complete uneven failure. Chunks of unbroken flour lay prisoner to a thick liquidy substance that has not blended consistently with the ingredients it initially required to create it. The heavy scent of vanilla arises from the pans, nauseating you just from its sheer strength alone. Your capacity for regret has reached its peak and it is still not enough to amend for this horrible situation.

 

You lift your flour coated arms to rub your tired eyes with the inner palms of your hands. You contemplate what made you think you could even _attempt_ to do this in the first place. All you ever really do is have sex and write codes, not bake cakes. It is a well-known fact in this house that you cannot bake much of anything, or cook, or perform even the simplest of culinary tasks. You are so inept when it comes to the confines of a kitchen that you actually have difficulty operating the most elementary of kitchen appliances. Children are able to operate such objects like a microwave with ease on a daily basis, and yet you have managed to unintentionally destroy three of them; two due to pure ignorance and carelessness, and one that surprised even you. Not only that but when it comes to such a basic survival skill as cooking in general, you are the most incapable out of everyone you live with. You manage to ruin just about any meal you attempt to create; from adding too much water to rice, to catching waffles on fire, to even burning soup. Soup of all things! A mixture of veggies, broth, and water, and yet you somehow manage to turn it into a bowl of blackened vegetables in a base of tasteless liquid. You breathe out a slow and heavy sigh before lowering your palms away from your face. You shift your body in order to achieve a better view of your surroundings, deciding to suppress your growing despair in order to evaluate your homemade disaster-zone logistically.

 

Though the main quarters has a spacious open floor plan, the kitchen portion is fairly modest; yet still decent considering the room's stout "H"-shape design. The main part of the kitchen consists of the inner northern wall with an island and bar stools across from it, sectioning the kitchen from the rest of the room. You veer your head to the right, tracing haphazard trails with your eyes along the barely visible quartz countertop, buried under indeterminable patterns of flour plastered against unneeded cookware, which you have positioned in unbalanced stacks during your numerous moments of anger and haste. You follow the trail approximately the width of two full counterspaces until it halts abruptly. Beyond it resides a bulky white fridge, humming quietly amidst the silent chaos that besieges it. Its doors have been slightly decorated with various grocery lists and some of Dave's "ironic" comics. Hesitantly you slowly look down the counters, feeling your nausea thickens, bearing witness to their drawers and doors forcibly sprawled open. Stampedes of numerous dishware and cookware hang from them like a frozen metal river, pouring endlessly onto the beige kitchen rug. The rug valiantly protects the pine wood floor from the scratches that your army of cookery has surprisingly yet to cause. Yet its sturdiness is not immune to the scattered stains of vanilla extract, leading a dotted path towards the island. Your body is tense with abashment as your eyes continue to follow the path of vanilla drops, soon disappearing into a path of scattered paper towels, drenched by the puddles of water they feebly tried to absorb. They grovel beneath the kitchen sink that is built into the left-half of the island, directly in line with the counterspace beside the fridge, overflowing with murky water, utensils, and layers of foamy bubbles. As you turn your gaze to the right-half of the island, you note that it seems to have been somehow spared from the wreckage you have caused. However despite it's sparing, it does not make you feel any better.

With a groan you reluctantly return your sight to your worthless confectionary creation. You slouch as you begin to massage your lean right bicep with your left hand, wrinkling the sleeve with each tight grip over your pale-yellow T-shirt. You further critic your cake goop while you mentally reevaluate all the baking procedures listed in the cookbooks fanned out all over the small counterspace to your left. You are really starting to question how Gamzee finds this even the least bit enjoyable; as well as why he has so many cookbooks covering the same types of food with different methods to make them. What is even the purpose of that? On another note, how is _anyone_ supposed to even figure out the exact measurements for all these ingredients? Yes you are able to decipher a decent amount of encodings, scripts, and equations.  However with units like "cup" and "tsp", it seems like nothing more than plain gibberish to you. Besides, your goop resembles absolutely nothing like those in the cookbook photos. Everything in these pictures appears so clean and perfect. The "batter" is even, no clumps or chunks. No milk or egg yolks separated, floating around because they apparently were unable to merge into the mixture with the power of the wooden utensil you found; which you can only hope counts as a "mixing" spoon. The comparison makes you cringe at your inadequacy. The goop has not even been placed in the oven and yet you have already managed to fuck this up, just as you do with every-single-thing. You are such a screw up. Why do you even try? You already knew you were going to fail anyways. You should quit now. Throw it into the trash while you still have a thread of dignity left. At least then you can try to clean up this mess before anyone witnesses any evidence of your horrible and embarrassing failure.

 

Without warning a stern voice infers, sharpened with a hint of sarcasm that cuts your last thread of dignity, while interrupting the start of your mental self-loathing soliloquy.

 

"What? No burned soup today Sol?"

 

You crane your neck farther to the left, viewing the source of the voice with an expression of both irritation and revulsion. He leans his back against the pantry casually, arms crossed loosely over the orange tanktop that clings firmly to his torso. Dark-grey sweatpants overlap as he shifts his legs to both aid in his balance and induce his nonchalant appearance. He angles his head, languidly aligning his composed amber eyes with your disgruntled red and blue.

 

"No," you snide in response, "I felt like a change, tho I decided to thet thomething elthe on fire inthtead."

 

You leer at him. You are not the least bit surprise that Dirk would be the _one_ person to appear out of nowhere, catching a front row view to your another one of your most embarrassing and humiliating moments. A quick glance over his shoulder reveals the entrance to his bedroom from across the open hallway. You recall Dave and yourself returning to your own rooms after Dirk passed out on his couch, forgetting to close his door along the way. You can only assume that—because of another one of your idiotic and careless discrepancies—he was awakened by all the commotion you were causing, becoming the cherry on top of your endless problem sundae.

 

"So..." he continues, his tone imperative and calculating, "You decided on a cake. What for?"

 

"Oh it'th for ' _none of your fucking buthinethth_ '," you remark agitatedly as you grab a pair of red oven-mitts off the counter. You quickly put them on, opening the oven as you tensely place the pans onto the top rack. You make sure the pans are positioned properly before tossing the oven-mitts heedlessly back onto the counter and closing the oven door. There is probably no point in saving it now, since you are positive you have already ruined the cake goop beyond repair. However you refuse to give Dirk the gratification of behaving as such.

You can feel his eyes on you, watching carefully as you snatch a metal bowl off of the counter to make the final piece to your disastrous cake: the icing. You hastily drop a stick of butter into the bowl, shaking it off of your fingers a bit too aggressively after it unfortunately impales itself on your claws. Next you busily rummage through the light red-oak cabinets above you; grabbing the jar labeled "powdered sugar" once you find it. Recalling that the recipe requires "four cups", you grab the plastic drinking glass you used to measure the flour with and begin to scoop it out of the jar. The air becomes weighted as Dirk studies you intensely. You notice his shoulders stiffen a bit in the corner of your eye as he clenches his arms tighter; yet still saying nothing. It would be a lie if you said it was not starting to get to you. Nevertheless you carry on, adding the last scoop of sugar before putting it back and moving on to the final ingredient, a few drops of vanilla extract.

You squeeze the tiny bottle, watching cautiously as the liquid takes a painfully extensive amount of time to accumulate. It probably would not be such an intense moment, if it was not for Dirk staring you down as if you were on a bomb squad and had forgotten which wire to cut. You hold your breath as the first drop falls onto the powdery ingredients below, releasing a small sigh once it melds in with the dry ingredients. Carefully you repeat the process, feverishly waiting for the second drop to accumulate while the atmosphere continues to grow more stagnant, making you hyperaware.

 

"Sollux."

 

The strict voice bolsters furiously through the silence, throwing you immediately off guard. You flail briefly as the extract bottle slips out of your tightened grasp and plunges straight into the mixing bowl, spilling a more than a few too many drops into the mix. You brace yourself against the stove as you regain your composure, craning your neck once again in order to stare Dirk down.

 

" _What?_ " You say through clenched teeth, trying to fight down the growl in your throat.

 

"You forgot to set the oven timer." He says casually, almost monotone, as if completely _oblivious_ to the growing agitation he continues to cause.

 

Disgruntled, you scoot the bowl forward as you lean over the oven to reach the clock, fiddling with the buttons in order to set on the timer mode. Just as the time feature appears though, you freeze. You try to remember when exactly you put the cakes in and how much time has passed. The nausea returns as your mind continues to draw a blank, cursing the fact that it was Dirk who came to harass you today and not Dave. As much as you could care less for his little "stopwatch" habit, you have to admit it would have been pretty useful right about now. Your train of thought is interrupted when you hear a strange sound, similar to someone trying to control a cough. You sneak a glance over your shoulder at Dirk, who is now casually scanning his eyes around the kitchen, taking in the full view before returning his eyes on you. You quickly look back onto the timer, deciding to set it for twenty minutes before swiftly moving off the oven and returning your attention to the icing. You begin to search for a new mixing spoon, restlessly scouring through the cupboards and matching counter drawers, letting the utensils clank and scatter about nosily and you dig through them.  

 

"Sollux."

 

You bring your motions to a screeching halt, turning your head sharply to face Dirk; your jaw aching as you keep it clenched shut to decline any hisses or growls from slipping passed your lips.

 

"We have a mixer." Dirk continues dryly, unaffiliated by the frustrated expression forming on your face.

 

" _Oh thank you captain obviouth,"_ you hiss sarcastically, touching two of your left fingers to your forehead before swaying your hand openly towards Dirk, an gesture likened to signify your sarcastic epiphany, "Becauthe _apparently_ I didn't already know that!"

 

You actually did not know that. Quickly you think of an excuse.

 

"I couldn't find the mixer, tho I dethided to uthe a mixing thpoon _inthtead._ "

 

There is a pause as you and Dirk glare at each other. However he suddenly breaks eye-contact, shifting his eyes to the left.

 

"...It's right next to you."

 

You follow his line of sight, tilting your view towards the countertop where a strange, upside-down "L"-shaped device stands beside one of the may piles of overused ingredients and unused utensils. On the end of its crane-like figure hangs what looks to you like two very sturdy whisks, while on the side it seems to have a lever that stretches across an etched bar of varying speeds. Looking near the rounded front, you notice the brand of the manufacturer engraved in bold letters along with something in a smaller, more elegant font. You decipher the over-calligraphic font, mentally spelling out the letters "C-L-A-S-S-I-C-P-L-U-S-M-I-X-E-R" as you mutter the words under your breath.

 

 When the realization hits, you can literally feel your back muscles tensing as pressure begins to build up in your chest. You bite your lip, wishing desperately you still had the use of your psiionics so you could blast that senselessly _moronic_ mechanism into ashes. You close your eyes and breathe deep, trying to calm your inner distress. You are not going to let your rampant emotions get the best of you on this. It is just icing afterall. Icing for a cake that is probably and completely destined for the garbage once it is baked. Yet, still icing nonetheless. You refuse to embarrass yourself even further by having a mood swing over something as trivial as a common sugary confection; which you ruined from the start because you are a failure and therefore should not have even tried to bake in the first place. You halt yourself from that train of thought. You cannot let yourself think like that. Better yet, you should just not let yourself 'think' in general. You let out an exasperated sigh and refocus, channeling your stress and attention onto making the icing.

 

"Sollux."

 

Dirk's voice cuts in yet again, though this time with a slight strain hidden behind his usual steely tone. However it is not strong enough in your opinion to be concerned about. What bothers you more is how claustrophobic this kitchen is starting to feel, the nauseous feeling that cannot seem to dilute itself, and the fact that Dirk is _still-right-there_.

 

"Well ithn't _thomebody_ talkative today," you chide before noticing the extract bottle in the bowl, still leaking. You rush to pluck it out of the bowl and set it on the counter as you continue to sneer at Dirk.

 

"What, did you get bored of theeping the day away? Or did you run out of thewing thuff for those dumb thex puppets-"

 

"smuppets."

 

" _Oh joy_ ," you comment, busying yourself with prepping the mixer while you glance distinctly at his unsurprisingly stoic face, masking your own with imperturbable unamusement, "you fucking named them. You mutht feel real proud of _that_ accomplithhment."

 

"Yes, it's one of my proudest achievements. It is an accomplishment so worthy of praise that it deserves only the mightiest of overly-bronzed plaques engraved with the time and date of this momentous occasion, along with a photo commemorating the ceremony that was held specifically in its honor." Dirk states apathetically, overlooking your snides entirely as you aggressively move and shift objects around in order to have a better handling on the mixer.

 

"Sollux."

 

You slam the counter drawers to your right, rolling your eyes as you scoff. You ignore him as you yank the mixing bowel off the stove to secure it under the mixer.

 

"Sollux."

 

He calls your name again. You can hear his tone grow just ever so slightly in order to catch your attention. However you refuse to listen and impatiently position the mixing whisks into the bowl, hearing a click that you think signifies it has locked in place. You are not really sure what all the notches on the lever signify, however Dirk's voice continues to assault your focus. Thus you feverently set it to the farthest notch and go to plug it in. However, just before you do, Dirk interjects once more, though this time with a more commanding tone.

 

" _Sol_ -"

_" **Deiderik Zachariah Thtrider!** "_ You snap, no longer able to control your ever-flourishing frustration and distress. You practically hiss at him as you continue.

 

"Tho help me, if you ** _dare_** thay my name one more time, I will perthonally take thith piethe of thit mixer and thove it _right up your athth,_ along with the thtick you have currently **_thuck up in there!!_** "

 

There is a pause as he looks at you for a moment. Anyone else looking at him would probably describe his face as the most unapologetic, apathetic expression they had ever witness. However you know better. His jaw is clenched, evident by how tightly his lips are pressed together. His amber eyes are half-lidded while his eyebrow gives a small twitch downward now and then. All of this and yet he surrenders, motioning with his right hand as if he is zipping his lip. You take a deep breath, exhaling in victory as you go to plug in the mixer. You then flick the switch at the top, confidently turning on the machine, and instantly receiving a blast of powdered sugar to your face. The whisks spin furiously, rattling the machine with its speed and sending powdered sugar flying everywhere while you struggle to find the off-switch. You surrender your efforts and jerk the plug out of the outlet in the midst of the frenzy, inducing the room into a painful and agonizing silence.

 

You pant heavily in the immense quiet as you brace yourself against the counter with your left hand, still gripping the plug with your right. With what little composure you have left, you gradually release the cord and unlock the mixer. Steadily, you drag the bowl out from under it and carefully move the bowl onto the stove. You close your eyes and take in one last deep. Slowly, you tilt your head downward and open your eyes. The minute you see the bowl you freeze, feeling the air still caught in your lungs. There is practically nothing left. All that remains in the bowl are weighted chunks of powdered-coated butter and wild trails of sugar dust from where it spewed out. A wave of trepidation hits you as you become overwhelmed by your surroundings, feeling trapped, almost unable to move. The tightness in your chest is now constricting your heart like a python killing its prey, making it almost too hard to breathe. Steadily you bring your left hand to your neck while wrapping your right arm around your torso. You attempt to massage your neck in a desperate attempt to calm down as you unintentionally fist the side of your shirt. However your attempts are failing miserably. You are almost crushed by the room, feeling as though you are caged in an hourglass while sand continues to pour down from above, smothering you against its unbreakable prison. Your body is restless, seeking some form of comfort and yet not wanting to be touched at all. With the feeling of nowhere to go and your body unwilling to move, all it can do is shake and cause your chest to compress even further. The nausea is ever present as you try to swallow, even though your mouth is now parched. You do not know what to do—whether to cry, scream, or destroy something—and yet your body refuses to move, letting your mind continue to linger on how this is all your fault; how you are such a failure in life and are doomed to forever be. You are the worst, scum, useless trash that has no business being given second chances in this unforgiving world. Why you? Why are you given opportunities when there are so many people more deserving than you? Why do you try? _What good are you anyways?_  

 

"Sollux."

 

Before you can continue your thoughts are faltered by a voice, firm yet soft, floating to your ear.

 

"Shut up."

 

You feel something strong and warm push up against your back, while you watch toned biceps loop under your arms and around your torso, grabbing the metal bowl in front of you. You focus on his hands, how you feel his body shift and twist behind you, reaching for things, shoulders rubbing against you as his hands place items into the bowel. It takes you a moment to snap out of your thoughts completely before you finally process what is going on.

 

 _"Hey!"_ you rebuke. You try to maneuver your way around in order to face him. Unsuccessful in your endeavors, you then attempt to navigate out of his indirect embrace. Despite your best efforts though, he has you pinned. You growl at him bitterly,

 

"Holy thhit thtop, I don’t need your help!"

 

"I'm not helping you," he retorts.

 

Suddenly your back becomes overwhelmed by a cold emptiness as Dirk pulls his chest away to better prepare the ingredients. He slips his right arm out from under your side to grab the powdered sugar from where you placed it in the cupboards. Although you find Dirk's meddling tedious, you cannot help but internally about how exposed and vulnerable you feel from the loss of warmth against your body. You soon realize that the contact is not entirely lost when you feel his left forearm bush against your waist, reminding you he is still there. Listening to the sounds of metal clinking and wooden cabinets creaking, you try to figure out what exactly Dirk's motive could be. Yet you continue to stare down at the bowl, noticing that he has placed some more butter and a bit of milk in it. You feel his chest press against your back once again, embracing you in his warmth as he reloops his right arm around you. You blink and find yourself staring at something dangling in front of your face, catching you off guard.

 

" _What the actual fu-_ "

 

"Measuring spoons," Dirk affirms, his tone stern yet softer than the norm. He is about an inch or so shorter than you, yet somehow he manages to find himself a comfortable view of the stove by bringing his chin to rest on your left shoulder. He grabs the vanilla extract with his right and sifts through the keychain of 'measuring spoons' as he continues dangling them in front of your face with his left, until he finds one he is satisfied with. He then fills the spoon, emptying it into the bowl, and repeating the process except only filling the spoon halfway. Keeping your focus on the bowl, he shoves another utensil in your face.

 

"Whisk this," he directs, leaving you quite unsure what to do for a moment.

 

"I'll do it if you don't know h-"

 

"I know what whithkik...wikththin...whitk- _jutht gimme the thtupid thing._ " you assert. You slip the whisk from his hand before he ends his indirect embrace to busy himself with some other task in the kitchen, leaving you to work independently. It takes you a minute to contemplate the proper use of the utensil; however you quickly recall how the whisks on the mixer functioned and start to apply the same methods by hand. It is difficult at first, yet you push on, channeling the remnants of your stress and frustration into whisking those ingredients like there is no tomorrow. You become so invested into mixing the ingredients that you actually become immune to the sounds of the kitchen, forcing Dirk to actually shove you with his shoulder, moving you to the right and out of the way of the stove.

Though time passes, you do not feel it the slightest bit as you continue to absorb yourself in your current task. You cannot help yourself from this small feeling of excitement as you witness the ingredients merge and take on a texture similar to those displayed in the cookbooks.  For once something you are making is starting to take on a recognizable—and a possibly edible—form. Plus, being able to beat the butter to death with a whisk is something you are starting to find highly meditative, therapeutic even. You make a mental note to remember this when you start feeling bouts of stress.

Your focus is abruptly deterred when Dirk slams something onto the counterspace in front of you. You recognize the object as the powdered sugar container. He leans toward it a bit and begins to scoop the sugar into some strange transparent bowl-cup hybrid, decorated with various linear red markings. After he fills it to a certain point he straightens himself and turns towards you.

 

"Here," Dirk instructs, "Let me see the bowl."

 

At first you are reluctant, however you concede, rotating your torso left in order to better his convenience. As you hold out the bowl with your arms he reaches out, gripping the edge with his right hand, tugging both you and the bowl closer. He looms the strange cup over the mixing bowl with his left hand and tilts it just slightly. He shakes it gently with his wrist, sprinkling the powdered sugar around the bowl. A soft quiet returns to the kitchen as you watch the sugar fall gracefully, coating the mixture like the first fresh snow of a budding winter. You glance up and immediately realize how close Dirk is to you right now, barely inches apart, standing face to face. However, as his eyes remain focused on coating the mixture, yours unintentionally start to roam.

You observe quietly the details of his dirty blonde hair, naturally spiked from his haircut yet not completely styled this morning, giving it a much softer and less jagged appearance. Your eyes lower their gaze, watching the tips of his bangs sway softly, brushing lightly against his forehead. His bangs point down to his slightly darker blonde eyebrows, relaxed and unfurrowed, reflecting the calmness in his vicious amber eyes. They are shielded by his surprisingly long blonde eyelashes that compliment and contrast beautifully against his sun-kissed skin; hiding his fiery irises when he blinks like white-lace veils. His head shifts now and then, baiting your eyes to stroll down his neck and view the defined muscles in his chest and left shoulder, routinely adjusting along with the motions of his tactfully sculpted arm.

 

"There," he says, snapping your concentration back to his eyes as he continues, "Now finish blending it."

 

You wordlessly continue your task, whisking the ingredients at rapid speed while Dirk departs your side to fetch some things in the cabinets. You push the lingering thoughts of Dirk’s body into the back of your head as you reclaim your focus on the icing.

After some time, Dirk calls for you from behind and requests you bring him the icing when it is completed. Once you review the cookbooks for visual comparison you then turn around and strut over to Dirk while he tends to something on the cleaner half of the island, and confidently present him the icing. As he accepts you catch the words " _Oh hey, looks good"_ beneath his breath. You are unsure as to whether he means this as a compliment or whether his expectations were just so low that he is genuinely impressed; which provides you with an odd sensation of both flattery and annoyance. You decide to ignore the latter scenario, letting your aggravation subside as you position yourself on his left, propping your elbows on the countertop as you lean over to observe Dirk's next line of action.

 

On the countertop in front of Dirk you regard some object akin to that of a miniature pedestal. It's eggshell-white coating glistens delicately like fine porcelain against the soft sunlight illuminating from the windows; outlining the shape of its beveled-edged base as it stretches upward into a sinuous stem before becoming stout, extending outward into the form of a circular platform and molded carefully to give it the design of an intricately crocheted tablecloth draping over the edges. Upon the platform rests what you suppose is one of the round cakes you were baking, while the other one hides behind it on a raised metal grid. You presume Dirk must have retrieved them while you were distracted by the icing. As you continue to examine the cakes from afar, you are struck with subtle disbelief. The cakes look like nothing you neither expected nor imagined. They are perfectly leveled and baked evenly, fully cooked to a tanned—and very delicious looking—golden brown similar to that of the images in the cookbooks. Whether the cakes are actually edible is still something you are greatly unsure of, though despite your uncertainty they still appear very appetizing.

 

Once Dirk removes the whisk from the bowl and exchanges it with something the cookbooks refer to as a "spatula", he immediately goes to work. You watch in awe of Dirk's skill as he icings the cake. His hands move with unfathomable precision and speed, rotating the delicate pedestal swiftly with his right hand as he flawlessly covers the top of the cake with a smooth and even layer of icing. You make the poor decision to blink, only to reopen your eyes and find that Dirk has already placed the second cake on top and is now covering the top and sides beautifully with the icing. After the cake has been given a smooth and even coat, you witness Dirk once again switch utensils. However you quirk an eyebrow, recognizing the new utensil he grabs this time is in fact, a dinner spoon. You watch questionably as he swirls the spoon around the cake, moving just as fast as he did before. As the design starts to become more evident, you pay closer attention to his motions; watching how the spoon practically glides across the cake, how his wrist moves so precisely as if artistically painting strokes of an oil painting on a stretched canvas. You find it almost relaxing how the grooves of the design swirl like the waves of the ocean.

 

When the cake is complete, he lifts the stand and displays it on the bar part of the island, raising the cake high enough to grab anyone's attention in the room. Suddenly, you snap to attention, alerted by the sudden voice hollering from the other side of the room. You tilt your neck and catch yourself in Dirk's glance, his eyes lidded and uninterested as he simultaneously places the spoon down and positions the pedestal on the bar edge of the island. 

 

"Hold up. Bro you didn't tell me we were having cake for breakfast..."

 

Looking beyond the counter, you witness the source of the voice, and slump your shoulders a bit as you exhale deeply.

 

 "So did you finally grow a sweet-tooth bro?" Dave calls with a smirk as he strolls toward the kitchen, still clad in his pajamas. Gamzee follows closely behind, hair loosely tied back and dressed in dark grey polka-dot pajamas pants with lime-green fuzzy socks. He hides his hands in the pouch of his favorite violet and black-stripped hoodie, which always appears two-sizes too big on him regardless of his height.

 

"Never thought I'd see the day you'd become a sugar fiend," Dave chimes as he hops on the one of the barstools, while Gamzee regards the seat next to him with concern, "Baking cute little cakes and all that shit-what's that phrase they're always using in those anime forums you secretly go on? Oh yeah ' _you're so kawai-'_ "

 

"I didn't bake the cake Dave," Dirk interrupts, unmoved by his brother's teasing. Dave leans against the counter, arching an eyebrow while his red eyes liddle with distain from being cut off.

 

 "Sollux did."

 

Gamzee and Dave look up at each other and almost immediately their faces begin to contort. You cross your arms, leering at them from across the island while snickers are heard from their tightened lips.

 

"I'm serious."

 

"Uh-huh. Then why isn't the kitchen on fire?"

 

You roll your eyes as your lips purse in despondence to the stupidity of Dave's question. However before you can defend yourself, Dirk rebuttals on your behalf.

 

"As much as it would make the scenario more believable if the house was filled with smoke and staff members shrieking in the distance, the fact that this kitchen looks like a city dump should be evidence enough.

 

Dave hunches over as he points his finger at Dirk. His expression regains what you would like to define as his 'signature smart-allec smirk' once he begins to combat Dirk's expectedly crude and offensive attempt at defending the truth.

 

"Okay, since you really seem to want us to believe that Sollux baked the cake, then tell me why he'd want to go through all that trouble in the first place, instead of getting someone else to make it?"

 

"Because," Dirk begins all too quickly and almost too casually, immediately shifting your attention away from your thoughts. You feel your heart clench and your chest tighten. There is absolutely no way he could know the answer, right? Dirk is very perceptive, yet could he really know the true reason? The last thing you want is for anyone to know, especially after all that happened to Gamzee last night. No doubt he or Dave would ever want to talk to you again. You really wish you could tell Dirk to shut up right now, however your body has become too rigid to do anything but listen.

 

"He baked the cake to give as a birthday present to Gamzee."

 

"So…” Dave shrugs as his eyebrows furrow at his brother's response, "why not just buy him a present?" After a pause his expression becomes lax as he raises his brows.

 

"Unless, he forgo-"

 

“Even though Sollux trying to bake is pretty much the same as a kid playing with gasoline," Dirk intercepts before Dave can complete his deduction, " he still thought that a homemade gift would beat out some shitastic merch from an online store," Dirk cocks an eyebrow at his younger brother as his tone starts to become more assertive.

 

"And considering that Gamzee is usually the one baking all the cakes for our birthdays, wouldn't it be a nice change of pace for someone else to return the favor?"

Arms crossed, Dirk twists his torso and aims his face at you.

 

“As I remember it, that’s you were complaining to me about this morning. Ain’t that right Sol?"

 

You switch your glance quickly between Dave and Gamzee to Dirk's bright amber eyes. He rolls his eyes in the other boys' direction and gives his head just a quick slight nod. Suddenly it clicks and you instantly loosen up enough to respond.

 

"Fuck yeth it wath." You answer adamantly, relaxing your shoulders as you start to place some dirty utensils in the sink, "Rather do thomething worthwhile for thith kid'th thweet thixteen than jutht by him a CD."

 

You aim your eyes at Dave, who slinks down a bit in his seat. Gamzee then places his hand on Dave's right shoulder as he smiles warmly, leaning somewhat against him as he speaks in a calm yet quiet tone.

 

"Man, y'all are just wicked deep in mothafuckin' niceness...It doesn't matter what you guys get though...I'm just all up in about the mothafuckin' thought ya know?"

 

You catch Gamzee's hand tightening on Dave's shoulder and Dave responding by bringing his own hand to rub at Gamzee's back. You are not entirely sure why, but since Gamzee and Dave have entered the kitchen area, something has felt off. Gamzee has never been the biggest talker—much less the most eloquent—but he has never been this withdrawn before. Normally he would be leaning over the counter with that doofy smile on his face, slouched and relaxed, telling everyone about the weird dream he had or one of his favorite shows. Today however, he just seems so quiet, too quiet. You study him for a moment; how he continues to stare down at the ground, hunched over a bit while staying as close to Dave as possible. He appears as if he is closing in on himself, like a moonflower furling from the touch of morning sunlight.

 

Your stomach sinks once your mind pieces together the reasoning behind his actions. You immediately brainstorm ways to cut through the weightiness of the growing atmosphere. As your mind searches for methods, a glimmer on the counter attracts your sight, revealing a large pie-slice shaped knife and sparking an idea.

 

"Alright you lotherth," you begin as you shove Dirk out of your way with your right shoulder, seizing the knife in your left hand while moving over towards  the cake.

 

 "Time to thit your aththeth down and get your plateth ready."

 

As you begin to carve the cake you notice Gamzee remains standing until Dave motions to the seat next to him. You observe as he Gamzee hesitantly sits down in the corner of your eye; his frame seemingly shaking until Dave scoots his seat closer. You honestly do not know how much of this behavior you can handle. The amount of withdrawal Gamzee has towards the world is so unlike him; it is too strange, too ominous, too.... nostalgic in a disturbing sense. However, though you had no one but yourself to guide you through your more painful trials, Gamzee does not, and just like Dirk and Dave you intend to do whatever you can in order to remind him of that fact. You look over your right shoulder so you can command Dirk to pass you some plates, however he already seems to have you covered, setting them on the counter beside the cake stand. Quickly you return your attention to the cake, balancing a big fresh-cut slice with the knife in one hand while raising a plate closer with the other, before flopping the slice onto the place and sliding it across the island bar, stopping directly in front of Gamzee's place-setting.

 

"Birthday kidth alwayth get firtht dibth," you say as Dirk divides two sets of silverware on the bar in front of Gamzee and Dave.

 

Gamzee moves his gaze from Dirk to you, violet irises veering their focus in elliptical patterns as if still deciding whether or not to make contact with your own. His reluctance to act is evident in the long pause he requires before slowly picking up the fork. He shifts his glance towards Dave, eyes wide as if looking for some sort of careful detail in Dave's expression that would signal disapproval in his actions. However, Dave simply smiles, motioning for Gamzee to continue.  Gamzee then turns his attention to the cake slice, tentatively cutting a bite with the fork and bringing it to his mouth. You proceed to watch nervously as Gazmee tastes your imposter of a cake.

 

"Its...."Gamzee mutters as his expression widens with shock. You notice the Striders' lean in a bit, awaiting Gamzee's judgement. Meanwhile, you feel as though your lungs have refused to work and are forcing you to die of suffocation before having to hear the humiliating verdict. However death does not come before Gamzee speaks again.

 

"Good?"

 

Gamzee looks as though he's solved some master riddle by accident while Dave stares at the cake, appalled by Gamzee’s call. You peak at Dirk who, though does not share in his brothers expression of disbelief, cannot seem to keep himself from staring down the cake as well.

 

\--

"No way man," Dave declares cynically as he leans back and crossing his arms, "Sollux actually making something edible goes against the laws of nature. It would be like having a 'Real Housewives' show where they aren't throwing shit at each other, or having a ham sandwich with mayonnaise on it-or something else out there that just ain't natural."

 

"Oh _wow_!" You sneer, feigning surprise on your face, "Thankth for the pep talk there Gordon Ramthey! Good to know that my cooking ith tho unnatural it could cauthe a rift in the fucking thpace time continuum," you give him a shrug as you continue, "But hey guethth what? You don't ever have to worry what it tathte like, cauthe you're now not evengetting a fucking crumb of this cake."

 

As if alerted to this decision, Dave straightens himself in his chair. He cocks an eyebrow and stares you straight in the eye.

 

"Oh I am so trying that cake."

 

Dave then stands in his chair using his left arm as leverage while he lunges over the island bar, swiftly reaching for the pie-shaped knife. On reflex you switch the pie-knife to your right as you use your left hand to smack his out of the way. However he grabs your left wrist in response.

 

"Give me the cake cutter Sol," Dave demands intensely, red eyes narrowing.

 

"I'll thhit on this cake before I give you a thlice."

 

 Before you know it you are in a showdown of tug-of war, with you flailing your arm in the hopes of shaking Dave off while he continues to yank you closer in order to better reach the knife. Suddenly, you feel the pie-shaped knife being snatched out of your hand. However the minute you look back at it you hear a muffled cuss as you feel your wrist being released. You are then immediately shoved to the left, before witnessing Dirk cutting a slice of cake and placing it in front of his brother.

 

You groan in irritation as Dave gives you a cocky smirk before devouring a chunk of cake.  Yet his confident expression is short-lived as he almost instantly coughs and gags, cringing to the point where he falls to the floor.

 

"Sollux," Dirk questions as he examines over Dave's cake, arms crossed sternly, "How many eggs did you originally put in there?"

 

"Why?"

 

Gamzee leans over to get a better glimpse of Dave's cake, before he starts trying to hide snickers beneath his concern as he speaks.

 

"Pfft-mothafucker all up and ate a whole egg yolk."

 

Baffled, you lean over to view the slice yourself, ignoring Dave's dramatic complaining and pleads for water. Lo and behold, you witness a portion of a cooked egg yolk inside the slice. You feel your face stretch into a wide grin as you begin to laugh. You cannot seem to help it. The fact that Dave gave you all that crap about your cake and to wind up eating an egg yolk—which you all know Dave absolutely hates—is just downright hilarious. Your chest now hurts in a good way as you try to get your breath between your frenzy of laughter, while you rest your torso over the island for leverage.

Out of the blue you hear shouts in a language unkown to you, followed by a loud smacking sound. Yet before you can determine the source you feel something like old magazine harshly whack with the side of your head.

 

 

"What the fu-"

 

 

You turn abruptly and find yourself face-to-face with a very angry, very dangerous looking troll. She looks down at you with eyes that are a furiously deep shade of burgundy, matching the lipstick she wears. They are encompassed in black eyeliner reminding you of the shape of a lion's eye. Her defined eyebrows are furrowed and her nose is cringed. Her long black hair is wrapped in a tight bun on her head while two strands lay loosely on the sides of her face. Just above those strands however are two thick horns—curved like the horns of a ram—with points as sharp as the two jade hair sticks stuck in her bun. She is adorned in a lime green oriental-styled silk shirt that stretches over the band of her pleated age skirt. You hear the shifting of her lime green knee-highs on the floor as she taps her left foot impatiently.

 

"Looks like the Handmaid's awake," Dave points out mockingly from behind. You doubt she heard the nickname since she seems too preoccupied with simultaneously glaring between you and Dirk, as well as further constricting the rolled up fashion magazine between her freshly manicured fingers. You clench your jaw tight as she bears her teeth, before scolding you...again.

 

 

"FIVE TIME I TELL YOU STAY OUT OF KITCHEN, FIVE TIME YOU NO LISTEN. YOU MAKE SHIT MESS YOU CLEAN, NOT ME!!"

 

Dirk snorts. She points her magazine directly at Dirks face, yet his stoic expression remains strong, denying her the gratification of a flinch.

 

"It go for you too 'Kamina'-wannabe," she growls, "You no fool me, I know you help."

 

Dirk leans back against the island, crossing his arms. His face is stone as he stares back at her with the casual sharpness of his amber eyes.

 

 "You know for a fact I don't give out charity Damara. What makes you think I'm part of this mess?"

 

Unamused, she aims her magazine lower, towards his lower abdomen. You and Dirk look down, noticing that his tanktop and sweats are covered in flour.

 

" _Damn..._ " Dirk mumbles. You can hear Dave and Gamzee muffling their chuckles behind you.

 

Damara then places her hands on her hips as she straightens herself before continuing.

 

"No more discussion. Decision is final. **Now clean!!** -oh ya and I take cake."

 

 

Immediately she swoops in between you two and picks up the cakestand, carrying it to the dining table along with a fork and plate. Meanwhile it appears Dave and Gamzee have once again absorbed themselves in their own little world, leaving the bar to go play MarioKart on the living room TV. You tilt your head at Dirk after releasing an exasperated sigh. Despite the stone nature of his face you can tell he feels the same as he raises his left hand out of his formerly crossed arms to rub at his temple. Taking a deep breath he then looks at you and smirks. Your eyes widen a bit as you realize it is not like his regular smirks. It’s a smile, small but genuine; tired but sincere. You are not sure why but the sight makes your cheeks feel hot. However, you are soon distracted from the warmth of your face as Dirk smile starts to take motion.

 

 

"C’mon," Dirk directs as he taps you on the shoulder, "we've got work to do."

 

 

You join alongside him as you both work tirelessly to clean the wreckage you caused in the kitchen. However having two pairs of hands is better than one and Dirk moves as if he has seven, so thankfully cleaning does not take the endless hours you thought it would. Once you finish, you both reunite with the other three and engage in a Gamzee-based day of videogames, movies, presents, and his favorite dinner prepared by Damara. The rest of the day flies by in a whirlwind of laughs and jokes, ridiculous stories and more of your cake; which did turn out to be pretty tasty aside from the occasional egg yolk.

 

Now as the night sky darkens and the streets go quiet, you catch yourself slowly drifting off on the center couch, beside an already passed out Dirk. You gaze down onto the floor to see Dave and Gamzee attempting to mimic the "magma" faces, as they continue to watch _Zoolander_. Peaking over the couch, you catch a glimpse into Dave's room and a portion of his balcony, where the soft light of an ember glows brighter on the edge of Damara's cigarette.

You can feel the faintness of the warm breeze traveling from the room, bringing an effortless tranquility to the night. You shift your view next to you, where Dirk has quietly fallen asleep. He looks as peaceful as the night, breathing softly through pursed lips. You inhale slowly as you close your eyes, revisiting the events of the day in your head. You enjoy your nights with strangers, that is something you do not deny. However, you cherish these quiet nights more.  How you all are casually able to enjoy each other’s company like in those family sitcoms on TV. Or how all your worries seem few and far between like those of the pedestrians on the street.  How you all seem more relaxed and at ease, acting as if the quality of your lives are not restricted by these walls.

 

Yet like all good things, these days do come to their ends. Tomorrow you will wake up and this moment will be over. Everything will go back to normal and the routine cycles once again. Like with every day before, tomorrow you go back to being just another gem in the Loveshack, waiting for your next client as you sit behind the red bared walls.

 

 

 

 

Without realizing it, you drowsily lean against Dirk. You find comfort in the warmth of his body as it reminds you of a soft warm light before you finally fall asleep.


End file.
